


The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life

by idrilka



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/pseuds/idrilka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate is an art student stuck on his semester project, Brad poses for the students at his school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Picture of an (Extra)Ordinary Life

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, huge, _huge_ thanks to **lickingbeads** , who did an amazing job as a beta and she was so fast, especially considering that she was working on such a short notice. Thank you, bb, once again! ♥ Also, this fic wouldn't be what it is if it weren't for **lunatics-word** , who practically adopted it, **eiirene** , who was my go-to person whenever I had a question about some technical aspects as far as drawing/painting was concerned, and **kubis** , who was always there for me to make sure that I was writing instead of procrastinating.
> 
> Can be also read [here on livejournal](http://idrilka.livejournal.com/118920.html).

Nate likes to wake up early, when the light outside is still gray and dim, and watch it turn orange and purple, with just a hint of amaranthine. His studio apartment on Brooklyn has a huge window overlooking the park and it’s the only good thing about this place. The light is fantastic. Everything else is crap, right down to the squeaky floors, drafty door and a heater that conked out some time ago.

Still half asleep, he navigates between the bed and the easel he left right there in the middle of the room last night, the canvas still depressingly blank, painted over for the third time. It’s just not coming together.

He doesn’t drink coffee at home, since it’s going to be pretty much shit, with Wendy’s ancient coffee machine the only thing he has at his disposal; he’s going to take care of his caffeine addiction once he gets to work. His shift starts in forty minutes. He’s going to survive till then and maybe he won’t even run anyone over with his bike on his way there.

“Nice of you to show up this early, darling,” the owner says with a smile, throwing him an apron when he arrives at quarter to seven. The whole café is filled with the scent of freshly ground coffee and Nate inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. Even after two years of working as a barista, he still loves the smell of coffee just like he always has.

Nate takes off his scarf, the one his sister made him last year for Christmas, and his coat, and fixes himself a double espresso. First things first.

The customers start to pour in a few minutes after seven, while Monica is still absent, so there’s just him for the time being, with Ruth out to get her granddaughter to school on time. It’s pretty much a morning from hell.

Vanessa is a regular here, a high school student who comes by the café every day on her way to the classes, and who, Nate suspects, has a bit of a crush on him. She always blushes a little when he hands her the non-fat venti latte, like she’s surprised that he remembers her beverage of choice, and she lingers by the counter just this side of too long, long enough that it finally gets Nate’s attention.

“Thanks,” she says once she gets her order, a little out of breath, fishing out a twenty from her wallet, and Nate hands her the change with a smile.

“Hey, Vanessa, have a nice day,” he adds as she grabs her latte and turns to leave. She’s still looking at him above her shoulder when she nearly crashes into Monica in the doorway.

“You wouldn’t believe what those motherfuckers did this time,” she snarls, putting her coat away and tossing her messenger bag in the back. “They flooded my apartment. Again. That’s the third time this month. This is getting fucking ridiculous. I had to call my landlord and you can imagine how well that one went…”

“The landlord that you were sleeping with?” Nate chimes in from his place by the espresso maker.

“One and only,” Monica says, shaking her head while she puts the apron on. “I’m going to fucking kill them if they do this one more time, and you’re going to help me hide the bodies.”

“Sure,” Nate deadpans without skipping a beat. He’s known Monica long enough to be used to that sort of thing. “But do you think you could make some coffee first? I kind of have my hands full at the moment.”

“What happened to your wicked multitasking skills, Fick?”

He throws a towel at her.

It goes smoothly after that and by the time Nate has to run to get to his classes on time, the constant string of customers has already died out. They’re going to start pouring in again once the lunch time comes, for a quick espresso if they’re in a hurry or a macchiato to go, or maybe even a grande latte they will drink, sitting in the café, sipping it slowly like they have all the time in the world. It’s fascinating, really, how much studying people’s coffee drinking habits can tell you if you know how to look. But by the time they come today, Nate’s going to be away, sitting in classes, drawing acts and taking notes on early Netherlandish painting.

At quarter to noon he grabs his backpack, his drawing portfolio and runs to the door, giving Monica a quick peck on the cheek on his way out. “See you later!”

“And you better be in one piece when I do, Nathaniel Fick! So just fucking slow down!” she yells after him.

“Can’t!” And then he’s out the door.

* * *

“Hey, Nate,” Madison whispers to him, leaning in, “how’s your semester project coming together?”

They’re sitting at the very end of the lecture hall, since Nate was late to class and didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary, and Madison always sits in the last row. Nate’s trying to focus on what the professor is saying about the influence of Bosch’s works on the paintings of Breughel, but he already knows all of this. Nate has always been fascinated by the Dutch and Flemish painters.

“It’s not coming together at all,” he whispers back. “I just… I don’t know. I think I’m stuck. I started over two times, but each time I’d just get to a point where I’d look at the painting and decide that it’s utterly abhorrent.”

“Give it time. It’s going to come eventually.”

Nate sighs. “I don’t have time. That’s the problem.”

Madison gives him a pitying look, but she doesn’t pester him further and Nate’s thankful for that.

An hour later he’s sitting in his drawing class (which is officially referred to as The Study of the Human Body, but no one actually uses this name), working on a sketch. Usually Nate’s perfectly professional, yet today he can’t help but stare a bit more than appropriate, since the model his group is working with is, well, the words _Nordic god_ come to mind—the man is tall, lean, drop dead gorgeous and Nate can see the perfectly sculpted muscles shifting and rippling under the guy’s skin with his every move. Not that he moves very often, since he apparently can stay absolutely motionless for hours—Nate’s not sure if the guy knows that it’s not a contest, really. The model also doesn’t catch up on his reading or nor is he texting people all the time, which is a vast improvement from Chris, who couldn’t say goodbye to his goddamn phone even for a moment and was a real pain to work with. Nate was really glad when he stopped showing up at some point. This guy is new, but he’s probably one of the students here, since he doesn’t look completely unfamiliar to Nate—he must’ve seen him around before.

During one of the breaks Nate almost goes over to him to introduce himself, but he gets sidetracked by Jim, who grovels to get his hands on Nate’s notes from the Cultural Anthropology class he takes as a part of his Humanities and Sciences course, and by the time Jim stops babbling about his projects and essays, the break is over and the guy returns to his place.

The students complain as usual that the models have changed their positions and they should rearrange their hands, legs, heads, eyelids and whatnot right this second, because they just _can’t_ work like that, you need to understand, but Nate takes one look at his sketch, then at the guy sitting still on the chair, and he goes back to drawing in silence.

Nate can certainly appreciate the beauty of the human body—it was what drew him to painting in the first place, the way people’s bodies differed, the way they could tell so much about the actual person only by the way they looked and moved, and the urge to capture this essential difference, this glimpse of something fundamentally true was so overwhelming that Nate wanted to be able to do that more than anything else. He loves the perfect imperfections, the level of attention to the detail it requires, the feeling he gets whenever he knows that he’s working with something special—and right now he feels like Michelangelo creating _David_. It’s that easy, almost like the charcoal in his hand is moving of its own accord, with his mind registering the movement only after it happens. It’s moments like this he paints for.

The rest of the class passes in a haze and then Nate is the only student left in the atelier, staring at his work. Dark, angry lines stand in stark contrast with the cream paper, so intense, detailed and dynamic that even Nate, who is usually his own harshest critic, has to admit that it’s nothing short of brilliant.

He raises his eyes to look for the model, but he’s already gone as well.

Nate bumps into him accidentally later that day as he’s running down the stairs to get to the gallery on time. When he spots him, it’s already too late and he collides with him with a huge force, stumbling when the momentum pushes him back and he nearly falls. The guy stands his ground, taking just a step back to hold his balance.

“Sorry, really, I’m sorry,” Nate says breathily, bending to pick up his drawing portfolio and when he straightens up, he can see that the guy’s eyes are on him, watching him intently. It’s only then that he realizes that he was holding a cup of coffee in his hand and now it’s on his shirt and jeans. The lid that was covering the cup is God only knows where.

Then he notices that the coffee got on the guy, too. Fuck. He braces himself for the inevitable _watch where the fuck you’re going_ , but it doesn’t come. What comes is, unexpectedly, “Since I managed to ruin your coffee, how about I buy you another one?”

Nate blinks. He has no idea what kind of logic stands behind this way of reasoning, but he’s not going to complain either and he’s about to say _yes_. Then he remembers the gallery. Mel would have his balls if he didn’t show up on time and Nate is rather fond of his balls the way they are now, thank you very much.

“I’d love to,” he says, “but I’m already running late. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a raincheck.”

“Sure,” the guy says, looking away and getting out of Nate’s way.

He’s opening the back door to the gallery when he realizes that he still doesn’t even know his name.

* * *

“Fick, I’m telling you, when you’re on a roll, you’re fucking scary,” Monica says, watching as Nate swiftly moves around the café, giving instructions to the new guy, who calls himself Q-Tip, in a level, confident voice.

He found out a long time ago that people generally tend to respond better to everything you say when you appear confident from the very beginning and you’re able to back it up with equally confident actions after that. Monica likes to joke that he’d make a good officer, since he enjoys ordering people around so much, but it’s not about that at all. He doesn’t like to think of it as ordering, he prefers to consider it to be guiding, if anything. He shares his knowledge and then trusts other people to interpret everything he says to the best of their ability.

Nate shoots her an amused look over his shoulder, smiling wryly. “Do you understand everything?” he asks as he turns to face Q-Tip. The guy nods vigorously. “Great. If you run into a problem somewhere along the way, just let Monica or me know, all right?”

“Yes, sir. Will do.” Q-Tip gives him a mock salute and smiles with the corner of his mouth.

It’s a Saturday and Nate doesn’t have to worry about making it to classes on time, so he revels in what little free time he has in between customers, trying to forget about the blank canvas waiting for him at home at least for a short while. He did a few sketches last evening and he’s pretty sure he knows in which direction he wants to go, but it still doesn’t feel quite right. The theme of his assignment is _movement and simplicity_ , and his professor was insistent that they go back to the most basic notions and ideas while creating their semester project. Nate knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know how to actually get what he wants, and it’s so damn frustrating that he has to stop himself from gritting his teeth every time he thinks about it. He’s not used to feeling so much at a loss with his own artistic work—that was something that’s always been easy for him, almost effortless.

“Hey, Nate,” Monica nudges him in the thigh with her finger, “wake up. Wanna grab a beer after the shift’s over? We could take the new guy with us, use it as a bonding experience, team building and all that crap.”

Nate smiles apologetically. “Can’t. Work to do.”

“You’re still stuck?” she asks. It’s pretty peaceful and quiet at the moment, a few customers sipping their coffee, talking in hushed voices.

“Yeah. There’s one drawing, though, that I did recently and didn’t hate on the spot, so maybe I’m going somewhere, actually.”

“What was that?”

“An act. Actually, I have it on me right now, I can show you if you want.” He goes out back to bring the drawing portfolio—it usually stays at home on weekends, but today Nate had to run an errand early in the morning, deliver a commission and hopefully get enough money to pay his rent, so he guesses it goes in the plus column, even if the portfolio is heavy and uncomfortable to ride with.

“Holy shit,” Monica says once she sees the drawing. “Damn, Nate. If this guy looks even half as good in reality, I want his life. No, wait, I want his girlfriend’s life, ‘cause then I’d get to tap that on a daily basis.”

Nate shakes his head, laughing. “I thought that maybe you’d like to say something about the actual drawing, not the model, you know. Just a thought. Feel free to start anytime you want.”

“You know it’s not my area of expertise, not really, so I can’t say too much about your technique, but it looks great. I love how real and raw it feels.”

Nate smiles as he carefully takes the drawing from her hands and puts it back in the portfolio.

“Now all I have to do is figure out how to achieve the same effect in that damn project or I’m gonna be dead. I’m gonna be worse than dead. I’m gonna be out of SVA and with no means to support myself. Fuck,” he groans, running a hand down his face, “this is a nightmare.”

“See? You’re the poster boy for the tortured artist cliché, Fick,” Monica says, snorting. “Poor as fuck and unable to paint anymore. Tell me when you start going around hungry, I can feed you out of the goodness of my heart.”

Nate gives her the finger, but he smiles nonetheless. He knows she would do that without batting an eye. That’s one of the reasons he loves her.

* * *

On Sunday, Nate’s having what he could call a bad day. He’s still way behind on his semester project (as in, it doesn’t even exist yet), he has practically no inspiration, two commissions to finish, a test on Wednesday and bills to pay, which is why he needs two jobs in the first place, especially with his roommate gone. Wendy is currently living somewhere in Europe, drawing in Venice, Paris, Barcelona or one of those other wonderful cities Nate always wanted to visit, where the light seems different, softer, warming the buildings with a faint glow at sunset. Maybe that’s why the works of the old masters always make Nate hold his breath when he looks at them in wonder and his fingers itch to feel the texture of the paint on the canvas. Maybe it’s the light.

He’s roused from his thoughts by a deep voice with just an edge of impatience hiding between the words. “Black coffee, large,” the voice says.

Nate looks up, professional as always, and, oh, it’s the Nordic god from the class. Nate grins at him widely, the smile that always makes the customers smile back. “Do you want some whipped cream to go with that? It’s today’s barista’s special,” he says automatically, before he has the chance to think.

The guy raises an eyebrow, looking like he’s trying not to laugh while he’s mocking him harshly, and Nate wants to slap himself on the forehead. _Wow, Fick, that was… bad_ , he thinks. _A horribly unfortunate choice of words, and really, just. Bad._

“Black it is,” he says breezily, turning to grab the right grind.

“How do you even come up with these things?” the guy asks, a mocking smile still playing on his lips, and somehow he manages to look utterly disgusted at the same time. “It’s a fucking offense to people’s taste buds.”

Nate shrugs. “Some people’s taste buds are not so easily offended,” he offers, smiling wryly. “I’m Nate, by the way. We’ve met.”

“Brad,” the guy says, nodding. He keeps his distance. “And I remember.”

“Sorry about your shirt,” Nate says, looking at him, taking in his tall, lean body and handsome face, and there’s an idea forming in his head. Actually, no, that’s not entirely true—he entertained this idea since he saw the guy—Brad—for the first time, went as far as making a list in his head, with bullet points and everything, but the cons outweighed the pros and he forced himself to stop thinking about it. Now it’s all coming back to him, though, and he has to admit that there’s one huge pro he tried to ignore, one that’s maybe even more important than all the cons put together. If he does this and it works, he gets to stay at SVA. And that’s his main objective right now.

“Listen,” he starts as Brad turns to leave, “my shift ends in half an hour and I have a proposition for you. If you’re not in a hurry, maybe you could wait for me and then we could talk? And you promised me that coffee, you know, and I’d like to think that you’re a man of your word.”

Brad looks at him and there’s curiosity hidden behind his seemingly impassive expression. Then he grins. “Sure. I’ll be over there.” He points with his head to the table in the corner. “Any time you feel like joining me.”

Nate could swear that thirty minutes had never dragged like that before.

“You’re still here,” he says like he can’t actually believe it, taking a seat across from Brad after his shift is over, getting rid of the apron and leaving the business in Monica’s more than capable hands (she stares at Brad just a little bit when she spots him; Nate’s proud). He puts the cup of coffee he brought with him on the table and stirs the hot beverage just to have something to keep his hands occupied.

“So why did you decide to start working on the side as a model at an art school?” he asks, stalling. He’s not entirely sure how to go about this whole thing without sounding too weird.

“Maybe I just wanted to donate my body to academia while it was still breathing.”

Nate’s lips twitch only the tiniest bit. “Your dedication is truly appreciated,” he says solemnly, his expression once again perfectly composed.

“I can see that.” He curls his lips around the rim of the cup, taking a sip, and he doesn’t take his eyes off Nate’s face the whole time, like he’s studying him. “This is the best damned coffee I’ve had recently.”

Nate smiles and grips his own cup tighter.

“Don’t you… I don’t know, get self-conscious about that?” he asks. “Putting your body out there to be an object to be studied, holding nothing back? It’s not an accusation, don’t get me wrong, I’m just curious. I don’t think I could do that.”

Brad lifts the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I was Swedish in a past life. I hear they have no problems with nudity.”

“Yeah, about that. Working as a model, I mean. I’m trying to put together this project that’s not going anywhere at all at the moment and I had some ideas as to what I’d like it to be, but for that I need your help. I saw you in my drawing class the other day and thought I could ask you if you would consider posing for me. I’ll pay, of course, that goes without saying.”

“What did you have in mind?” Brad asks.

Nate takes a deep breath and starts talking. “The theme of my project is movement and simplicity, and since for me dance is one of the most basic forms of expression known to mankind since the dawn of civilization, I thought I’d go that way, try to convey its timelessness and universality, and combine that with the study of the human body. And well, you look like a dancer, body type-wise, so that certainly helps with what I have in mind.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment when Brad’s body goes stiff, his arms crossed on his chest in a defensive posture, his lips forming a thin line. “No,” he says in an angry voice, then he stands up, takes his leather jacket and leaves. Nate stays at the table for about ten whole seconds before he registers what just happened. Then he’s out of the door in a heartbeat, dressed only in a thin shirt, but Brad’s already gone, just the roar of the engine lingering in the chilly air.

* * *

He looks for Brad for a whole week before he finally gives up. There’s no one who’s heard of a guy matching his description attending Nate’s school and he’s running out of people to ask. His semester project is still just blank canvas resting on the easel.

In the end it’s Brad who actually finds him.

Nate’s leaving the university on Tuesday, this time not in a hurry, which is a nice change for sure, when he spots a tall figure standing on the sidewalk, propped against the lamppost.

“What, you finally decided that leaving without any explanation is fucking rude and maybe you should apologize?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. Now that they’re standing face to face, Nate is angry. He’s also relieved, but the anger for once seems stronger, burning in his chest.

“I came to tell you that I changed my mind,” Brad says, straightening up and taking a step towards Nate. “If you still want me.”

“The offer still stands, provided that you promise not to pull a stunt like that again when I’m in the middle of working on my project,” Nate says. “I need you to be sure, otherwise don’t bother.”

He knows it’s harsh, but he can’t afford to lose his scholarship, and he _will_ lose it if he fails this class. And if he loses his scholarship, he will be forced to say goodbye to the New York School of Visual Arts, because there’s no way he can afford the tuition, and his parents have also Carol and Gillian to provide for, so it wouldn’t be fair on any of them to ask for such money all of a sudden.

“I’m sure,” Brad says, looking Nate straight in the eye.

“Good.”

“Also,” Brad continues, “seeing that I didn’t actually pay for your coffee the last time, what would you say to a beer and maybe something to eat? I know a place nearby, and we could discuss your project in greater detail.”

Nate considers it for a moment. He doesn’t have a shift at the café until the next morning and Mel called him earlier to tell him that they don’t need him today at the gallery, so he has the evening free.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Brad leads the way to a small bar nearby, one of those places you need to know about in order to notice them at all—the signboard is faded and there are narrow stairs leading to the entrance hidden beneath the street level.

They come in, accompanied by a quiet chime when the door hits the bell hung just above the frame, Brad takes a step inside and then Nate can hear him curse under his breath. He looks like he wants to turn around and leave, but then a dark-haired, wiry guy sitting in the corner waves in their direction, shouting, “Yo, Iceman, over here!” and Brad’s spine straightens up, his shoulders tense.

“Ray, didn’t expect to see you here this time of day,” he says, putting a smile on his face, then he turns to Nate and adds quietly, “I’m really sorry for what you’re about to witness.”

“We can’t just fuck all the time, you know, homes,” Ray says, pointing to a man sitting next to him, a young guy with blond hair, big, blue eyes, full of boyish charm. His cheeks are a little bit pink and he looks like he wants to stop Ray from talking before it’s too late, but he knows that any attempts will be futile anyway. “That’s bad for your health and your dick eventually gets sore, although you wouldn’t know, ‘cause being the Iceman and all, your dick is probably made of titanium or some shit. But we, lowly humans, need to eat and drink, too, so fuck yeah, we’re here.”

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad says in a tired voice. Nate tries to suppress a smile threatening to break out.

“Hey, Brad, who’s the boy toy?” Ray continues, unbothered. “Where did you get him, off the street?” He squints, looking suspicious. “Are you gonna pull some Brian Kinney shit on us? And what does that make me? _Mikey_? Fuck you, I’m not Mikey in this scenario. Or ever, for that matter, no fucking way.”

The blond guy shakes his head and whispers, “Jesus, Ray, stop talking.”

Nate just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I _am_ an art student, so you wouldn’t be that far off, that is, if you weren’t completely off as to the nature of my relationship with Brad in the first place,” he says, amused. “I’m Nate, by the way, and I have a job proposition for Brad, that’s all.”

“Right,” Ray says, looking unconvinced.

He doesn’t get the chance to say anything more, because the other guy, his boyfriend, apparently, clasps his left hand on his mouth, extending his right one for Nate to shake and ignoring the muffled sounds made by Ray fighting in his grip. “Hi, I’m Walt.” He smiles.

“And this,” Brad starts, pointing to Ray, “is my retarded roommate. He’s a joy to be around.”

His expression says that it’s true only if you happen to enjoy the company of a pack of rabid hyenas, too.

“Obviously,” Nate says, not skipping a beat, as he takes a seat across from Ray and Walt, with Brad’s thigh pressed right next to his, warm even through the double layer of denim.

“So, what kinds of filthy things are you planning on doing to Brad under the pretence of this _job proposition_?” Ray asks, complete with the air-quotes and everything, when Brad goes to the bar to order a pitcher of beer.

Nate raises his eyebrows. “If I said that the only thing required of Brad would be to stay undressed at all times while we’re working together, would that satisfy your curiosity?” he asks. Ray gapes. “Relax, I just want Brad to pose for my semester project. I’m going to return him unharmed as soon as I’m done.”

“Right, like that’s gonna happen,” Ray mutters under his breath.

“So what’s this project about?” Walt chimes in hastily, before Ray has the chance to start talking again.

“It’s for my Study of the Human Body class, and the theme is simplicity and movement,” Nate starts to explain, excited, “so I decided to do something connected with dance, since it’s one of the most primal, basic forms of expression that uses the human body as a tool, and I couldn’t help but notice that Brad has the body of a dancer. He’s lean yet muscular at the same time, so I think this is going to work out just fine.”

By the time he’s finished, Ray is looking at him like he can’t believe Nate is not a collective hallucination, but actually a living, breathing human being. “And Brad _knows_ about this?” Nate nods. “And he still said _yes_?” Nate nods once again. “Fuck me,” Ray finishes, shaking his head.

“What?” Nate asks, confused. “What’s so unusual about the fact that Brad would say yes?”

Ray and Walt look at each other before Ray says, “You’ll have to ask Brad. It’s really not my place to tell.”

Nate furrows his brow, but he doesn’t say anything, not when there’s Brad coming their way with a pitcher of beer and two glasses in his hands.

“You know what, guys, I think I’m gonna head back home,” Walt says after Brad settles in the booth and pours beer into the glasses. “I have an early start tomorrow and my back and feet hurt like fuck after today’s training, and I’m tired, so I thought I’d get some rest. Ray?” he asks pointedly. “You coming?”

Ray looks between Walt, Nate and Brad for a moment, and then he reaches for his jacket. “Yeah, baby, I’m coming. And I can give you a backrub if you want. I give fucking wicked backrubs, I’ll have you know, and then we can—”

“Ray.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, _coming_. And then you—”

“Ray.”

The door closes behind them with a quiet chime.

Nate can sense that it was just an excuse to leave them alone, that whatever Ray was hinting at was important, something he should get to know before they start anything. He’s intent on getting it out of Brad, even though he can already see that it won’t be easy, not if Brad chooses to shut down completely and leave like he did the last time.

“So what does Walt do?” he asks instead.

“He’s a student at Juilliard. A dancer. It’s tougher on your body than most people imagine,” he says a propos nothing in particular, and there’s something more behind those words, something Nate can’t quite put his finger on. Regret, maybe.

“And you?”

Brad shrugs. “I study computer science at Columbia, do some programming on the side. Not much to talk about.”

Nate waits for a moment, takes a gulp of his beer. “Why did you leave so abruptly the last time we were talking? I just— I tried to explain it in some rational way and I just don’t understand. What was it, Brad? Was it something I said?”

Brad’s fingers go white around his glass. “No, it wasn’t you. It was me.”

“Well, that’s something I’ve certainly heard before,” Nate tries, but the joke falls flat somewhere between them. Brad smiles nonetheless. Nate wants to trace the curve of his lips with his fingers, try to do justice to their shape and texture once he gets a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand.

“I just wasn’t sure if I could do that. But I thought about it. And I can.”

“Okay.” Nate decides that it’s better if he doesn’t pry any further, at least not right now.

“Look,” Brad says after they finish their third pitcher and Nate starts to feel a little bit tipsy, “my apartment is just upstairs if you want to come. You could show me what you have in mind as far as the project is concerned.”

They go up—the apartment is rather small, but it’s still bigger than what Nate can afford at the moment, and it’s completely dark and empty.

“Didn’t you say that Ray is your roommate?” he asks as Brad flicks the lights on.

“Yeah, but he hardly ever sleeps here anymore.” Brad tosses his leather jacket onto the armchair standing by the coffee table in the middle of the living room. “He’s always at Walt’s place, pestering the shit out of him. I don’t even know how it’s possible that Walt hasn’t killed him yet, but then again, he’s one of the few people, including Ray’s mother, who can get Ray to behave like an actual human being.”

Nate huffs out a laugh. “So how do you know them?”

Brad offers him a glass of water, but Nate shakes his head. “Something to eat, then?” Brad asks.

“No, really, I’m fine. So?”

“Ray and I go way back.” Brad sits in the armchair and tilts his head back, trying to work out a kink in his neck. “We went to the same high school and then he dragged his sorry ass after me to New York, got into the Psychology program at NYU and stayed to make my life miserable for a few more years, you know, the usual tale of woe.”

“And Walt?”

There’s a pause and Brad once again looks tense, gripping the glass tightly and avoiding Nate’s gaze. “I met him at Juilliard,” he says quietly.

“What? But you said that you study at Columbia.”

“I do now.” There’s something in Brad’s voice and his face that almost makes Nate cringe. He didn’t know it was possible to look that defeated while still keeping up appearances for other people’s sake. For Nate’s sake.

“Hey, you don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me anything,” Nate says calmly.

“No, I think you need to hear it. I owe you that much if we’re to work together on this project.”

Nate nods. “Okay. I’m listening.”

“I used to be a dancer, I was good, I got a scholarship and an early admission to Juilliard. I wanted that since I was fifteen and finally confident enough to figure out what _I_ wanted for myself and learn not to give a fuck what other people thought about it. I almost got through the freshman year. I was practicing, my knee gave out, I fell. I don’t even remember what move I was doing exactly, and that’s kind of pathetic, I mean, these things usually stick with you, right? Well, that one didn’t. I just remember it hurt like all fuck. I went through a surgery, then PT, and then they told me that I wouldn’t be able to dance anyway, not ever, ‘cause my knee was fucked up for good.” His voice is level, quiet and Nate’s not sure if Brad even registers that Nate’s in the room anymore—it’s like he’s talking to himself, like for him telling this story is a cathartic experience of sorts. “So I left Juilliard and decided to study the only thing I was really good at, besides dancing. Computers. I applied to Columbia and they wanted me, they were even generous enough to give me a scholarship. It could’ve ended worse,” he says, but Nate has a hard time believing it. He doesn’t think Brad believes in his own words either.

He wonders what it would feel like if he couldn’t paint anymore. He can’t even begin to imagine that, it’s far beyond his range of comprehension. Not painting is like not breathing and if it feels that way for Brad, too… There are some things Nate just can’t ask of him, now that he knows what he knows.

“Listen,” he starts, “I shouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t have if I’d known. I should go.”

He stands up to leave when Brad says, “I told you I’d do that. So you can just as well stay.”

Nate looks at him for a moment, but Brad wears a mask and that in itself is a sign that he should back off when there’s still time, that there are scars which are better left alone to heal until there’s nothing but thin white lines somewhere on the inside that feel different to the touch but don’t hurt anymore.

“Okay,” Nate says against his better judgment. “Look, about other things. I don’t know how soon I’m going to be able to pay you, but I’ll make sure that it’s sooner rather than later. What is your rate?”

“Nate, I—“

“Brad.”

“Nate.” Brad stares at him, but Nate holds his gaze. “We can discuss payment after we’re done. I promise, I’m not going to ruin your budget.” There’s a hint of a smirk on his face, like he’s laughing at a very private joke.

So be it. Nate needs that credit and he needs his scholarship, and Brad offered, so he’s going to take whatever he is given.

* * *

On Wednesday afternoon, which fortunately both he and Brad happen to have free, Nate opens the door to his apartment after a short struggle with the lock. He should probably call his landlord, since it’s been getting worse and worse, and one beautiful day Nate will find himself outside his home with literally no way in.

He was given the permission to paint the apartment himself, so it’s full of vibrant color that makes up for its other shortcomings, and he can see that Brad looks around with hidden curiosity, though Nate can still see it right there in his face.

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” Brad says after a short while.

Nate smiles with the corner of his mouth. “But the light is nice.”

“Sure, your frozen corpse will look lovely when they find you in the middle of winter.”

Nate laughs. “Well, what can I say, I’m living the cliché. Now all I need is consumption.”

Brad looks at him pointedly, then crosses his arms across his chest and leans against the pillar separating the living room area from the tiny kitchenette.

“I can see that happening with your heating or rather lack thereof,” he says. “And I assume you already have a muse with whom you’re tragically in love and who dies at the end of the movie?”

“I’ve seen that one. Ewan McGregor was quite good in it.”

Nate hangs his coat and reaches for Brad’s leather jacket—their fingers brush briefly when Brad hands it to him and Nate discovers that his skin is warmer than he expected. Maybe he took Brad’s nickname, the Iceman, a bit too literally.

“Can I fix you some tea?” he asks, heading to the kitchenette to put the kettle on.

“Sure,” Brad says from his place right behind Nate’s back, just a couple of steps away, and when the fuck did he get there without the squeaky floor alerting him?

There’s something about Brad that fascinates Nate—the way he carries himself, his moves efficient and graceful, the way he conveys so much through his body and yet can remain unreadable when he wants to. Nate finds himself wishing to be able to reach past his raised walls regardless.

Later, Brad undresses in silence interrupted only by the quiet rustling of paper as Nate prepares the easel and looks for the ink. The tattoo covering Brad’s lower back is mesmerizing when he moves and Nate thinks about the pinch of a thousand needles piercing the skin for a split second, drawing blood and leaving color in their wake, covering inch after inch, and his fingers itch to touch it, he wants his palms to span the vast expanse of skin, trace the lines where one color seamlessly blends into another.

“Nate?” Brad raises an eyebrow and Nate flushes, like he’s been just caught staring, the tips of his ears burning a bit—the last thing he needs now is to act unprofessional.

“Sorry. Too many thoughts, got distracted,” he says, smiling.

“Of course,” Brad says with a hint of a smug smile playing on his face.

Nate draws for a while after that, looking up every now and then to gaze at Brad’s still form, stretched with his one arm high above his head, the other one outstretched comfortably, his fingers loose. His right foot is drawn up to the knee of the supporting leg, touching it lightly. “You can breathe, you know,” he says eventually with a laugh and watches Brad’s chest rise in a deep gasp and fall as he exhales.

“How old were you when you started dancing?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to, it just slips out, and he can see Brad tense up.

“Ten,” he says in the end. “My parents didn’t know what to think, at least not in the beginning, when they realized I was serious about it. They wanted to send me to a military school, but I managed to convince them to let me stay and apply to Juilliard. They always wanted the best for me, even if they weren’t particularly happy with my choices.”

“We—” Nate starts and pauses for a moment to put the brush away, “we don’t have to talk about it and I’m sorry I brought this up.”

“Nate.”

“No, Brad, I respect that, really. I get it.”

“It’s not a problem.” Brad’s jaw is set, his arms crossed on his chest.

“Oh, right, and that’s exactly why you freaked out and left without a word the first time I mentioned the theme of the project, because you don’t have _any_ problem at all discussing that,” Nate says in a level tone, but there’s sarcasm dripping from every word. “Don’t try to bullshit me, okay, Brad? It doesn’t really work.” He takes a look at the drawing, then at Brad. “We’re finished for today.”

Brad nods and starts to dress.

“Thank you,” Nate adds, turning to face him.

“No problem.” Brad’s face is cold, closed-off.

“Brad. Don’t, okay?” He catches him by the wrist before he can leave. “Come on, I’ll make us dinner. I hope you are a fan of stir fry.”

* * *

The first snow this winter catches him unprepared—Nate wakes up one Saturday morning and everything is covered with a thin layer of white. Nate loves those moments when the snow is still fresh and unspoiled by the traffic and footprints, but these are rarely witnessed in a city like New York, one that never really goes to sleep.

The apartment is cold and Nate shivers when he disentangles himself from the sheets and goes to take a shower. Once he’s back, he calls his landlord to inform him that the heater has broken down again, but the man doesn’t pick up. Nate swears under his breath and dials Brad’s number. He answers after the third signal, a quiet, “Colbert,” uttered in a raspy voice, like he’s just woken up.

“Hi, it’s Nate. I hope I didn’t wake you. If I did, my apologies,” he says. “Listen, I’m terribly sorry, I know we were supposed to meet this afternoon, but my heater has stopped working, again, and it’s freezing in here. I don’t think that it’s such a good idea to go around my apartment undressed right now.”

He can hear Brad inhale deeply on the other side of the line. “Nate,” he says and there’s an amused undertone in his voice. “Although I have been informed that the light in your apartment is superior to the very same light in any other place in this whole city, you can come over to my place if you want to. I promise that my heater works just fine and neither of us will end up with any valuable body parts frostbitten. We certainly wouldn’t want you to freeze your fingers off, now would we?”

Nate smiles. “Thanks. I’ll be there as soon as my shift at the café is over.”

It’s a long day and by the time his shift ends, he’s already tired and dreams of nothing else but a few good hours of uninterrupted sleep in a room that has a functioning heating system. Unfortunately, he can’t afford such a luxury.

He’s about to head out, leaving Monica and Evan alone, when the door opens, letting in a cold gust of wind and Brad, who looks around until he spots Nate and then smiles at him. Nate doesn’t know what to think.

“I had an errand to run nearby and thought that maybe you needed a ride,” Brad says, placing his elbows on the counter and leaning forward. Nate can’t be sure if he’s telling the truth.

“Sure, let me just get my stuff, all right?”

Brad nods and takes a seat at a nearby table while Nate disappears in the back room to gather his things. He can still hear Monica sigh and whisper to Q-Tip, “I don’t know how he does that. Why aren’t there any hot guys lining up to _me_? It’s so fucking unfair. All the good ones are either gay, married or fictional characters on television. Or, you, know, all of the above.”

Nate shakes his head with a smile, biting on his lower lip as he makes sure he has everything he needs. The portfolio, the ink, the brushes, the drawing pens, his messenger bag, his coat, the scarf, the gloves—he picks up everything and quickly buttons up his coat, and then he’s out the door, one hand wrapping his scarf around his neck, the other one waving at Monica and Q-Tip.

“Children, play nice,” he says. Monica just rolls her eyes.

When Brad said _a ride_ , this wasn’t exactly what Nate expected. A car, maybe, some vintage beauty—slick shapes, black body shining in the winter sun, but what he sees is a motorbike, and sure, the _slick shapes, black body_ part is right, but…

“What, afraid?” Brad mocks, putting on his helmet. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna crash us, I’m not a fucking retard.”

“Not afraid.” Nate shakes his head. “Surprised. But then again, maybe I shouldn’t be. There are no confinements on a bike like that, right?”

Brad looks at him with an odd expression on his face and then hands him the spare helmet. “Hop on and hold on tight,” he says and then they’re speeding down the road. The only thing Nate can hear is the wind in his ears, drowning out even the steady roar of the engine.

When Brad parks the bike and turns the key in the ignition, everything goes quiet, so quiet that Nate can hear his own breathing.

“Everything all right there?” Brad asks, looking over his shoulder with a broad grin on his face. “Still got everything you came with?”

Nate nods and mentally blesses the solid clasp on his drawing portfolio.

Brad’s apartment is, indeed, a whole lot warmer and Nate revels in the feeling as the color starts to come back to his fingers.

“Tea? Coffee? Beer?” Brad offers from the kitchen. He seems completely at ease having Nate here.

Nate knows that nothing about the relationship between them is strictly professional anymore, or even casual, and he can feel the tension that builds up in the tips of his fingers every time his hand accidentally brushes over Brad’s skin, every time he adjusts Brad’s body, and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from touching more than he should. He likes Brad, maybe a bit too much to keep a level head, and right now the last thing he needs is a distraction. When all is done and over with—well, that’s a different matter altogether, but Nate is going to take it one thing at a time.

“Coffee’s fine,” Nate says, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Ray not home?”

“Please.” Brad snorts. “As if there’s something that could stop that inbred whiskey-tango trailer park sister-fucking moron from getting drunk or high, or drunk and high, and fucking Walt’s brains out till they both pass out, especially on a Saturday evening. And they’re already up to an early start.”

“It warms my heart to hear you speak so fondly of the people you love, Brad, you have no idea,” Nate says, deadpan. “Really, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Not really. I can think of a much better use for my mouth.” Brad grins.

Nate knows they’re walking on thin ice here, so he doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead he tries to focus on the way the strong tendons in Brad’s neck flex with his every move so that he can try to capture the movement in his drawing later on, when Brad is perfectly still once again, like a statue of an ancient god gazing into the distance with unseeing eyes.

“There’s something…” he says at one point, looking up at Brad above the easel and furrowing his brow. He’s chewing on his lower lip again, to the point where he can taste the faint tang of copper on his tongue.

“Hmm?” Brad raises his eyebrows, turning his head to look at Nate, who steps out from behind his easel and comes over to where Brad’s standing to correct the position of his arm and shoulder, and this one time, throwing all caution to the wind, he lets his hands linger, his fingers ghost over the smooth skin. Brad turns to look at him, and there’s something in his eyes that resembles fear and uncertainty a bit too much for Nate’s comfort, so he takes a step back.

So maybe he’s read Brad wrong. Maybe Brad’s okay with harmless, casual flirting, but that’s all he’s up for. Nate can respect that. He does his best to make sure he doesn’t touch Brad again and goes back to drawing.

“Listen,” Brad says after they’ve finished for the day, “how about you stay here tonight? Your apartment is temporarily uninhabitable anyway and don’t even try to protest, I’ve seen the weather forecast, it’s going to be fucking freezing.”

He reaches out like he wants to touch Nate and then his hand freezes mid-way and he takes a step back.

Nate can deal with a lot of things, but he generally prefers it when people are open with him and, what’s even more important, capable of making up their own goddamn minds. This—this is a freaking emotional rollercoaster.

“I’m just paying you to pose for my project, you don’t need to do these things,” Nate says, turning to grab his bag and his coat.

“You think I do this for money?” Brad asks and sounds like he’s insulted. “I don’t want your money, Nate.”

“Then what the fuck do you want?”

Brad shakes his head and runs a hand up and down his face in an exasperated gesture.

“God, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” he asks.

Nate snorts in disbelief. “Have you? And how is that even relevant, anyway? What the fuck am I supposed to think here, Brad? And what the hell do you want?”

Brad kisses him then, cupping Nate’s cheek with his hand and Nate inhales deeply, his hands clutching his coat and the strap of his bag until he finally lets them fall to the floor and places his hands on Brad’s chest, tracing the contour of his collarbone and sternum, letting his fingers travel up to the strong line of Brad’s neck and jaw.

Nate licks Brad’s lower lip and teases it with his teeth, tugging lightly—Brad follows into the kiss, opening his mouth just a bit wider, angling his head just so, and they fit against each other, incredibly close, with Brad’s eyelashes fluttering against Nate’s cheek.

“What did you mean about the mirror?” he asks breathlessly when they part for air, nuzzling the hollow of Brad’s throat with his nose. He can feel the laughter in Brad’s chest.

“Are you joking?” Brad asks, lifting Nate’s chin so that he can look him in the eye. Nate raises his eyebrows and Brad just shakes his head, his eyes closed. “You have no idea, do you?” he adds once he’s looking at Nate again, his eyes impossibly blue and nothing like ice. “How you look, how you— _Fuck_. Christ, Nate…”

Brad traces the lines of his jaw and cheekbone, a desperate, surprisingly open look on his face ( _I did that_ , Nate thinks in a haze), and Nate leans into the touch, his lips slightly parted. He’s breathing hard, staring at Brad, and his chest is burning.

There’s something so familiar in what they’re doing, something so uncomplicated and intimate, and in that moment Nate feels like he knows Brad inside out. He reaches up to kiss him again while his hands trace the straight line of his spine, trail down to his lower back and stay there for a moment, exploring the uncharted territory covered with ink. Nate wants to map it with his mouth, his tongue. He wants to conquer it and claim it for himself.

Brad pulls back, just for a moment, just to take a gasp of air, and then he kisses Nate once more, but this time the kiss is gentle and almost tentative, just a light press of lips against lips that leaves Nate’s mouth tingling with the sensation nonetheless.

They still haven’t moved from their spot in the middle of the living room.

“Will you stay? Just for tonight?” Brad asks and he sounds breathless.

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” Nate says with his forehead leaning against Brad’s shoulder. Brad kisses his neck.

* * *

He wakes up in the middle of the night, when the clock on the nightstand announces that it’s already past three. Nate could definitely use a glass of water as well as the bathroom right about now, but in order to do so, he has to disentangle himself from Brad’s limbs first. For someone who has as much control over his body as Brad does, he’s very unguarded in his sleep.

He tries to move Brad’s hand and is just about to slip out of bed when Brad catches him by the wrist and whispers almost incomprehensibly, “What’s wrong?” It comes out hoarse and is muffled by the pillow.

“Nothing’s wrong, Brad, go back to sleep. I’m just going to get some water.” Nate rubs his eyes and traces the inside of Brad’s wrist with his thumb.

“Thought you were going to leave,” Brad says once Nate’s back and it startles him a bit—as far as Brad’s concerned, it’s a bold confession, leaving nothing up to interpretation, everything laid out in the open.

“You wish,” Nate says, nudging Brad’s calf with his big toe. “Your apartment is much nicer than mine, your bed is extremely comfortable and your heating actually works. I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s a hand that curls around the nape of his neck, thumb stroking the skin lightly, and it somehow feels more intimate than the best sex he’s ever had.

Nate hovers over Brad and leans in for a kiss. He’s completely awake now, his skin tingling with want and he brushes his hand over Brad’s abdomen, then trails up to trace the line of his collarbones and he bends his head to lick at the hollow between them, taste Brad, smell him, feel him all over. Brad’s hand sneaks around and rests on the small of his back, his fingertips dipping slightly under the fabric of Nate’s underwear, pressing into the soft flesh and Nate starts to get hard.

Nate relishes in the slow, almost lazy slide of Brad’s tongue against his, the way their lips align and move against each other, slick and hot, leaving him with a tingling sensation when they part for air. Brad brushes his hand against the swell of Nate’s ass and Nate bucks his hips in response, rubbing against Brad’s thigh—he knows he must look like some testosterone-driven teenager getting some for the first time, but he really doesn’t care, not as long as there’s the friction he needs. They don’t stop kissing even when the kisses start to get sloppy—Nate licks into Brad’s mouth deeper, opening his mouth wider, and he’s pretty sure he’s the one moaning, making soft, desperate noises in the back of his throat, but once again, he doesn’t care, not really.

“Fuck, Nate,” Brad whispers when Nate slips his hand into his pajama bottoms, grips him, firm, and then starts stroking, developing a steady rhythm he loses only for a moment when he comes with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, and Brad leans in to swallow the moan that follows. Then he arches into Nate’s fist, groaning, and Nate picks up the pace, flicks his thumb over the head and presses lightly until Brad’s coming undone under him, flushed and disheveled and beautiful.

“Christ,” Nate breathes out with his face hidden in the crook of Brad’s neck, his lips against Brad’s skin.

He feels sweaty and sticky, and he should really ditch his underwear, because it’s a total mess right now, but he can’t bring himself to move. It’s Brad who eventually stands up and brings a wet towel from the bathroom as well as clean pajama bottoms for Nate.

“Thanks,” Nate mumbles, trying to get his eyes to stay open. He doesn’t fully succeed and Brad laughs.

“Just fucking go to sleep,” he says with a smile and shakes his head, dropping the towel to the floor.

Nate closes his eyes and tries, but he actually finds it impossible to fall asleep and it’s only after he can hear Brad’s breathing go steady that he finally succumbs to sleep.

* * *

He wakes up when the sun is already high to muffled sounds coming from the kitchen. Brad’s not in the bed, so Nate expects to find him there, but when he pads to the room, barefoot, not even bothering to throw a shirt on, he sees Ray standing by the counter, munching on a bowl of cereal. Brad’s nowhere to be seen.

“Hi,” Ray says around a mouthful of Cheerios, waving at Nate, like it’s completely normal that he’d be here, clad in Brad’s pajama bottoms and nothing else. He doesn’t so much as bat an eye—it looks like Ray’s one of those people who don’t get fazed by just about anything.

“Hi.” Nate smiles and then goes over to the fridge to pull out a carton of orange juice. It’s miserably empty inside, just a jug of milk and some leftover pizza. And mustard. “Sorry, I didn’t expect to see you so early in the morning. What happened, Walt threw you out?” he asks, leaning against the refrigerator, the corner of his mouth quirked.

“Nah, homes,” Ray waves his hand he holds the spoon in, sending a spray of milk all over the place and then slurps loudly, “he just told me to fuck off for today ‘cause he needed to study and I was apparently really fucking distracting.”

“So he threw you out,” he says with amusement in his voice, but he tries to keep a straight face, since it seems to be the best way of dealing with Ray’s own brand of bullshit.

“Well, that’s one way to look at it. I prefer to see it as a sign that we’re in a healthy relationship and therefore capable of giving each other the space we both need when we need it. Or, you know, even Walt’s tolerance has its limits. And he really needs to fucking study for that test.”

Nate looks around for a moment and listens out for any noises, apart from Ray’s terrible slurping as he finishes off his cereal, but there’s no sound of running water coming from behind the bathroom door.

“Have you seen Brad?” he asks finally.

Ray shakes his head. “Nope. Thought he was still asleep. But then again, he’s the Iceman, he wakes up at some ungodly hour and still can and will fuck you up if you cross him, with a smile on his face, and that’s _before_ he has his morning coffee. Not that you’re likely to get on his bad side anyway, since Brad Colbert practically shits glitter and rainbows ever since he met you. Meaning, he’s less homicidal and more understanding of other people’s shortcomings, people meaning mostly yours truly, and sometimes even resembles a human being, not a motherfucking robot.”

Nate pauses with his glass halfway up to his mouth. “Thanks, I guess?”

“No problem, homes.”

There’s just one thing that’s been nagging Nate since day one and he needs to know, even though he suspects what the answer may be already. “Why _the Iceman_?”

Ray looks kind of hesitant, and with him, that’s a first. “The thing you need to know about Brad Colbert,” he starts eventually, “is that with him, you never know what’s happening on the inside, not really, ‘cause he’s like this fucking giant iceberg that sunk Titanic. He keeps a lot to himself and doesn’t let it out, ever, just keeps piling everything on this huge heap of shit inside of him, and guess what, one beautiful day he’s gonna drown in all that crap. That’s one fucking unhealthy attitude to have if I may say so myself, but that’s Brad for you. And I keep telling him, Brad, you gotta pull that stick out of your ass and talk it all out, and it’s gonna be all good, but who the fuck listens to Ray-Ray anyway? Not Brad Colbert, I can tell you that much.”

Nate thinks that maybe Ray would be surprised. For all Brad’s complaining about Person’s retardation and other irredeemable qualities he likes to rant on, he sure as hell pays attention to a lot of what Ray says to him.

They hear the sound of a key turning in the lock and a moment later the door opens and Brad comes in, carrying two bags stuffed with groceries.

“I’m gonna kill that little fucker,” he says, looking at Nate, and tosses his keys onto the table. “He emptied the fridge and went on his merry fucking way, so I had to do a grocery run first thing in the morning or we’d have to go out for breakfast.” That’s when he notices Ray’s presence in the kitchen. Person waves at him with a stupid grin. “And what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Walt threw him out. With all the love and affection possible, of course. I’m assured of this, Ray,” Nate answers with a small smile.

“He had to study,” Ray adds matter-of-factly.

“Of course he did. So, Ray, how do you take your eggs?” Nate asks, turning to the counter and rummaging around the cupboards in search of a pan. He hopes that’s okay, that he’s not imposing or whatever the hell—it’s been a while since Nate experienced the morning after in all of its aspects. Brad doesn’t look like he minds that much.

“Hey, Brad, I like this one,” Ray says, pointing at Nate. “He looks like a keeper, he can stay.”

“Thank you, Ray, your input into the matter is, as always, deeply appreciated. Now fuck off.”

There’s silence in the kitchen until they can hear the door leading to Ray’s room close with a loud thud.

“So, where were we?” Brad asks, taking a step closer. His skin is still cold and smells like winter and snow and icy wind when he leans in to nuzzle Nate’s throat.

“Breakfast,” Nate says, trying to ignore the way his stomach grumbles at the very thought of food. “As in, I really could use one right about now.”

Brad smiles and steps away to get eggs from the fridge.

* * *

They do this for the next few weeks—Nate comes over to Brad’s place, he works on his project and usually stays the night, but every time he tries to talk to Brad about this thing between them, what it means and what they are, exactly, Brad just shuts him off completely, his body tensing up, and he gets that look on his face, the one that explains why he’s called the Iceman in the first place.

It’s casual, as casual as it can be, no strings attached, and Nate doesn’t have to feel like he has any obligations to Brad whatsoever, really. At least that’s what Brad says. And they’re good, they are, as long as it stays lighthearted and just for fun and with no name tag on it, as long as they (Nate) don’t try to discuss it.

Casual. Nate starts to hate that word.

He’s sitting in his History of American Art class, taking notes on Hopper, when Brad texts him. _my place, 8 p.m.?_ Nate texts back, confirming it’s a date. He has a shift at the café before that, but if he leaves early, he’ll make it. And even if he doesn’t, Brad won’t mind, he hopes.

It’s a slow afternoon at the café, so in between customers Nate has some time to study for a test on late 19th and early 20th century European art he’s taking next Thursday. He’s made it as far as Gustav Klimt and the Vienna Secession, and if he has to read one more word about Art Nouveau, he’s going to scream.

He can hear Ray even before he sees him—that’s not strictly speaking unusual, since Ray talks a whole lot (an understatement, if he’s ever heard one), but it is a bit surprising, considering that he isn’t sure how come Ray knows where Nate works exactly to begin with. But when Nate lifts his eyes to look at him, there he is, with Walt by his side, holding hands.

“Hey, Monica, I’m gonna take a five, okay?” he says loudly over his shoulder. “Hi, guys,” he starts then, turning to face Ray and Walt, “can I get you anything? How did you know where to look for me, or is it just a coincidence?”

“We worry,” Walt says. “About you. And Brad. And you and Brad.”

“Why would you?” Nate asks, fixing them two cups of coffee—black for Walt, extra cream and sugar for Ray. “We’re fine, it’s nothing serious, we’re just—“

“Yeah, I know, I know, you’re casual.” Ray waves his hand around, shaking his head. “But, Nate, the thing is, Brad doesn’t do casual. He did serious commitment once and does negotiated affection, so to speak, but he doesn’t do casual.”

Nate doesn’t like where it’s going at all.

“Can we take a seat somewhere?” he asks, then pours milk into Ray’s coffee and reaches for a tray.

The booth in the far corner of the café is secluded, outside the hearing range of everyone else.

“So, what’s the problem? Ray? Walt?” Nate looks at them expectantly.

“Look, we don’t think you know everything there’s to know about Brad and that’s what’s preventing you from seeing the whole picture,” Walt says with his gaze focused on his coffee. “It’s really not our place to tell you anything Brad decided not to tell you himself, but we just wanted to—“

“Nate, listen carefully, ‘cause what I’m about to say is really fucking important,” Ray interrupts him and looks Nate in the eye. “Brad can go around telling everybody how fucking casual you are, but in fact you’re anything but. Brad, let me repeat, doesn’t do casual. He either fucks whores or has one night stands, or he doesn’t do anything at all, at least nothing short of a real relationship, that is, even if that one was off the table for a long time. This little love affair you have going on? Don’t fool yourself, it’s not casual, not for Brad, but he’s too fucking stubborn and insecure to admit that he wants something more, ‘cause he’s afraid you’re going to say no.”

Nate’s heart is pounding against his ribs. “That’s insane,” he says.

“Fuck yeah, that’s insane!” Ray throws his hands in the air. “But it’s still the truth.”

“Why would he even think that? I mean—“ Nate really doesn’t know what to think. If Ray’s right (and he can pretty safely assume that he is, because if there is a Brad Colbert manual somewhere out there, Ray’s the closest thing Nate can think of), all that keeping it cool act is just this. An act. For all Brad’s brilliance, he can be awfully dense sometimes, it seems. But Nate guesses there’s something more to it, something they’re not telling him and he doesn’t have the right to ask either of them.

“Brad went through some tough shit, homes. It fucked him up pretty bad, but if you want details, you need to get it out of Brad himself,” Ray says. “Good luck with that, by the way.”

“I appreciate the heads-up,” Nate tells them.

By the time they leave, Nate realizes he’s already late.

* * *

Nate loves this drawing already—the sharp lines of Brad’s body, the defined muscles, the way light and shadow are playing on his skin, making him look eerily out of this world and painfully human at the same time. The fact that Nate was able to achieve that effect is in itself astonishing. To be frank, he didn’t think he could pull it off, but he could, and he did, and now he’s staring at the drawing in silence, waiting for the ink to dry.

“So? May I?” Brad asks as he dresses himself, pointing to the easel.

“Sure.” Nate steps aside and observes as Brad takes in the drawing, the way his face changes and he can’t tell if it’s bad or good. He hates not knowing these things with Brad, and it’s more often than not that he doesn’t know how to read him, even if he does better than most people on average.

“Jesus, Nate, that’s… Fuck.” Brad shakes his head and turns to look at Nate. “How do you do this? I’m the last person to be talking about that whole looking into one’s soul bullshit, but fuck me if that’s not what you did here. How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it was about me. I think it was more about you.” His fingers tingle and he feels overcome with excitement. If painting is living, then he’s the most alive person in this world right now, doing this, doing this with Brad, just to see him look at Nate in wonder and astonishment.

He doesn’t know precisely when he fell for Brad Colbert somewhere along the way, but he knows this is the exact moment he realizes that with absolute certainty. And he wants it to work between them. Christ, how he wants it to work, and there’s this almost painful feeling somewhere inside his chest, crushing his lungs, not letting go, that Nate suspects might have a lot to do with love.

“This is brilliant,” Brad says, brushing his lips against Nate’s temple. Nate sighs contentedly and leans against Brad, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Couldn’t do this without you. If I hadn’t met you, I’d still be stuck on that project, with the deadline approaching and the possibility of losing my scholarship looming over me. Thanks, again, for doing this.”

He strokes Brad’s forearm absentmindedly. Brad’s body goes rigid under Nate’s touch.

“Listen, I don’t expect you to stay after we’re done,” he says quietly in a strangled voice, not looking at Nate. “I don’t expect anything, okay? I know that it’s probably just a—”

“Shut up, Brad, just shut up and listen for once.” Nate turns in Brad’s arms to look at him, then takes a step back. “Why would you think that? Why would you think that I’m going to just pack my shit and leave?”

“I—“

“Well, guess what. I’m not.”

“You’re not.” Nate expected it to be a question, but it comes out more like a puzzled statement.

“No, Brad, I’m not, and why would you even think that I was… I don’t even know, using you just to leave you after I got everything I wanted out of this relationship?” Nate doesn’t know whether he’s more dumbfounded or angry right now—at Brad, for thinking so low of him, at himself, for not letting Brad know what he wants clearly enough.

“That’s what people usually do,” Brad says with conviction, matter-of-factly, and something inside Nate twists and turns painfully until he can barely breathe.

“Jesus, what the fuck happened to you, Brad?” he asks, shaking his head, his eyes wide open, staring at Brad, who just stands there, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing.”

“Of course.” Nate wants to laugh, because it’s just so ridiculous, but when he opens his mouth, it comes out strangled and broken.

“Nate.” Brad catches him by the wrist before he has the chance to turn and walk away, pulls him closer and just holds him for a moment, his breath tickling the shell of Nate’s ear.

“You don’t _have_ to tell me,” Nate says after a while, “but I would prefer it if you did. This way I wouldn’t feel like I’m going round in circles, blind, not knowing where I should tread carefully. Just… talk to me.”

There’s a shadow hiding somewhere deep behind Brad’s eyes when he turns to look at Nate to say, “I will.”

“But it’s nothing, really,” he says after that. Nate doesn’t believe him, not really. He also knows better than to push. He just hopes he can find the strength to stay until Brad finally decides to open up to him.

* * *

Nate goes to the Met on Sunday, like he used to every weekend back when he didn’t have to have two jobs that took away most of his free time.

“Come with me,” he tells Brad over the phone.

They’re almost finished with the project and Nate is going home for Christmas in a few days, as soon as he can complete the last drawing and submit his works to his professor. Nate really hopes Brad won’t get any stupid ideas in his head and won’t try to make good on that _I can be out of your life once we’re finished if you want to_ promise.

“There’s a Degas exhibition that’s closing next week, it might be my last chance to see it,” he says. “And I think you’d like it.”

The weather’s nice, even though the streets and sidewalks are covered in melted snow that squelches under Nate’s feet and splashes all over his jeans at the bottom of the legs. But the sun is shining low on the winter horizon, blinding him with its light, and there’s light wind blowing in his face that’s just this side of not too frosty to be unpleasant.

They meet up on the steps of the Met, Brad smiles at Nate and Nate smiles back, and then they go inside and don’t hold hands, just walk right next to each other, so close their sleeves brush every once in a while, but they still don’t touch. Nate still has no idea what they are to each other, except that they’re _something_. Brad still turns in on himself every time the topic comes up. Nate wants to ask him if the problem is that Brad thinks he can’t be trusted or if it’s something else entirely.

Nate tells Brad about the impressionist and postimpressionist painters—he loves their works, adores Van Gogh and Monet and Cezanne and Renoir and Gauguin and he’s not ashamed of being so cliché. There’s nothing cliché in the way their paintings appear to people, full of vibrant colors and textures and light, so real and so ephemeral at the same time—it’s enough that you take one step too close and suddenly the only thing you can see is a maze of colorful dots and splashes that mean nothing, make no sense. Here, distance is everything.

“Why didn’t he paint male dancers?” Brad asks, looking at one of the paintings. “There are only girls.”

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “Maybe he was more fascinated by the female body and chose a single subject to study. Maybe it’s just like with the Pre-Raphaelites? They sure loved their redheads.”

So he tells Brad about the Pre-Raphaelites, too, not only the painters, but the writers as well. “I loved _The Goblin Market_ even before I fully knew what it was really about, when it was nothing more than a nursery rhyme to me,” he says.

Brad likes Shakespeare and King, and Hemingway, but not _For Whom The Bell Tolls_. His favorite story by Hemingway is _Hills Like White Elephants_ , because it’s poignant without being too straightforward. He thinks that Joyce is full of shit. They both like T.S. Eliot and Edgar Allan Poe. These are the small things Nate learns over time, collecting them like bread crumbs. If this was a fairytale, he could leave a track so that he doesn’t get lost. But the big things, the important things—these are still kept away from him.

They meet Mark, one of Nate’s friends from SVA, on their way out. Mark’s in the Graphic Design program one year above Nate.

“Nate! Didn’t expect to see you here, everyone I talked to recently said that you were still stuck on your project and busy like hell,” he says when he sees him and then eyes Brad with curiosity.

“Yeah, it’s coming along, I’m nearly finished now,” Nate tells him with a smile. “Oh, by the way, Brad, this is my friend from school, Mark. Mark, that’s Brad, my— That’s Brad.” He almost flinches as he hears himself finish that sentence. Brad’s face remains impassive, but when Mark reaches out to shake his hand, his eyes dart to where Nate’s standing and he looks at him like he’s not sure what’s going on exactly.

Nate has a vague feeling that he fucked it up, but on the other hand he couldn’t think of any appropriate word to describe his and Brad’s relationship even if pressed.

“Hey, Nate,” Mark starts, looking at his watch, “gotta run, I’m late already and Rick is gonna rip me a new one if I’m not there in, like, two minutes. Take care, I’ll be seeing you. Brad, it’s been a pleasure.”

Once they’re outside, Brad seems to be more quiet than usual and they walk for a while in silence. The sun is now hidden behind grey clouds and it looks like it’s going to snow. The air is more chilly than it was in the morning and they’re just about to enter the subway station when the first tiny flakes start to fall. They get caught in Nate’s eyelashes when he raises his head to look at the sky and melt slowly from the heat of his body. Brad looks at him with a strange expression.

“Come on,” he says, tugging Nate by his wrist, and he doesn’t let go when they start walking down the stairs to get to the subway.

On the train, they stand close to each other and their fingers are still interlaced. Nate wants to kiss Brad right there, with all those strange people watching, but eventually he settles for leaning against him with his head propped on Brad’s shoulder.

Back at Brad’s apartment, Brad makes them dinner from scratch (he’s a really good cook when he bothers to make an effort in the first place and puts his mind to it), they have a beer or two in the living room, sitting on the couch and watching each other rather than the game that’s on ESPN, and then Nate offers to wash the dishes. He actually likes it, something that Brad can’t understand, but this mindless chore actually helps his thoughts run free and sometimes he ends up with some great ideas for his next projects in mind.

It feels so domestic, what they’re doing here—Nate with his hands elbows-deep in foam that smells like mint and lemon, Brad bringing him the dishes and stopping by to kiss him on the nape of his neck, wrapping his arm around Nate, teasing him, his breath right next to his ear, tickling Nate’s skin.

And there it is again, the strange intimacy Nate has been struggling to explain from the very beginning—the way Brad seemed so close while he was still practically a stranger, the way Brad’s body felt like a familiar territory when he touched him for the first time.

And then Nate remembers. _Oh God._ “It was you.”

Nate turns around to face him in a flash.

“What?” Brad’s hand falls to his side, limp, and he takes a step back to give Nate more space or maybe to get away from him.

“That night after my last exam a few years back.”

He remembers that night a bit too vividly and not clearly enough at the same time. He got a little too much to drink and it was the first and the last time he got roped into smoking weed. The details got somewhat blurry after that and he was pretty much out of it, still aware of what he was doing, but rather fuzzy on the specifics. He remembered that the guy was tall and muscular, and smelled like mint and tequila, but that was it. When Nate woke up in the morning, back in his old apartment he shared with Mike, he was already gone.

“That was you, at that bar Mike dragged me to. Jesus fucking Christ, the guy I went home with, that was you.”

Brad doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Nate can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“And you _remembered_ that?” There’s water and foam dripping from his hands onto the floor, but Nate doesn’t fucking care right now.

“You don’t just forget something like that.”

Nate takes a step back and looks at Brad in disbelief. He feels physically ill. “And you didn’t bother to tell me all that time? What kind of a sick game are you playing, Brad? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nate.” It sounds pleading.

“Christ, Brad, I trusted you.”

He wipes his hands and walks to the living room to pick up his things.

He’s livid and disappointed and sad, and he wants to get the hell away from here as soon as possible. He can’t find his goddamn brushes. They’re nowhere to be seen and he knows he left them on the cabinet in the corner the other day, but somebody must’ve moved them. Fuck, he needs those brushes.

“Nate.”

“Don’t,” Nate says, rummaging around the room. There they are, kicked under the sofa. He collects them, his hands trembling with anger and quite possibly something else entirely, and stuffs them in his messenger bag.

“Nate, please, I—“

He turns to face Brad. “I don’t think I want to talk to you right now. Or see you, for that matter.”

Nate absolutely hates that look on Brad’s face as he closes the door, but he just can’t do this, he needs some time away to think.

Outside, he lingers for about five minutes, leaning against the brick wall, his breath coming out in white puffs, like he’s waiting for Brad to come look for him, to say he’s sorry, to explain why he kept silent all that time. Nate wouldn’t go back, though, not now, not like this, but it doesn’t matter anyway, because Brad doesn’t show up and Nate decides to catch a train home.

He keeps painting like crazy for the next few days, long into the night. The paintings seem to be completely different from what he usually does, dark and sharp and aggressive, and he feels exhausted every time he puts the brush down, all his anger and frustration poured onto the canvas.

There’s the last, unfinished drawing for his assignment waiting for Nate, and his common sense gains the upper hand over his anger at Brad, so he grits his teeth, puts the finishing touches on the piece and submits his project at the last possible moment, earning a pointed look from the professor’s assistant.

The next day, Nate goes back home for Christmas and he doesn’t see or talk to Brad at all.

* * *

His house is always packed for Christmas—there are all those more or less distant relatives with their families that you only see once a year and then almost forget they even exist in the first place, and of course Nate’s sisters with their significant others, who seem to like the Ficks more than their own respective families. Nate can’t exactly blame them.

“So, how’s the big wide world?” Gillian asks when he settles in the kitchen, reveling in the warmth, his bags still unpacked in his old room upstairs.

“Crazy. Expensive. The same,” Nate says, shrugging. “You know, come to think of it, nothing has really changed in the last couple of millennia as far as the general condition of the humankind is concerned. The only thing that’s evolved is the tools we use to destroy ourselves.”

Carol snorts. “Well, let me tell you, dear brother, you are such a fucking ray of sunshine, I’m impressed. What happened?”

“Why do you think something happened?” Nate tries to look innocent.

Carol gives him a look which says that she doesn’t buy his rather poor attempts at evasive maneuvers at all.

“Come on, it’s Christmas, you met your deadline and they won’t kick your sorry ass out just yet, so the possibility that you become a famous artist who earns fucktons of money and hangs out with the cool people is not yet completely gone, not to mention dad just made you a fantastic dinner, and you still look like somebody pissed all over your canvas. Come on, fess up.”

“Mom would kill me if told you. It’s one of those _children, don’t try this at home_ things,” he says, smiling wryly. “And I have no intention of contributing to your depravation, thank you very much.” Then he gets more serious. “Just… promise me to never ever smoke pot, okay?”

Gillian rolls her eyes. “Please. In case you forgot, we’re both in college.”

“In case you forgot, it’s punishable by law and makes you do irresponsible, absolutely foolish things,” Nate says, his expression deadpan.

“Jesus, Nate, what did you do?” Carol leans towards him, her eyes wide open.

“Doesn’t matter.” He wants to say, _I didn’t do anything_ , but he would be only lying to himself, and that’s not something he usually tends to do, he expects better of himself. “I need to deal with this on my own.”

Carol sighs. Gillian just shakes her head in silence. They both know him well enough not to push further. “Fine,” she says, throwing her hands in the air and in that moment she reminds Nate of Ray. The thought is more than a little scary. “Have it your way.”

Later in the evening, he finds Gillian sifting through his sketches and miniatures he abandoned earlier in complete disarray in his room. She’s always loved art, even though she couldn’t achieve the level of skill that would allow her to apply to an art school—it became an issue at some point, her jealousy over Nate’s talent, but they got past their differences a long time ago.

She picks up a miniature, one of those Nate worked on straight after his fight with Brad.

“Well, that’s very YBA,” she says, raising her eyebrows. It’s not Nate’s usual style and they both know that.

“Fuck you, it’s not.”

Nate smiles and shoves her playfully in the shoulder. She waves a finger at him, shaking her head with mock disapproval.

“Next thing you know, you’re preserving a shark in formaldehyde,” she teases.

“I can go a step further and try that with my sister. Maybe this will shut her up. And I’m sure it would garner a lot of attention, so who knows, I might become famous after all. Before I get sentenced to years of prison, that is.”

“Weak, Nathaniel,” she says. “Very weak. Oh, and who is that?”

The drawing she holds out is a rough sketch, one that was never supposed to be seen by anyone but Nate, one he almost forgot even existed. In the picture Brad is sleeping peacefully, half-naked, tangled in the sheets, surrounded by the early morning shadows playing on his skin. Nate can’t help but remember that morning when he woke up far too early and the sleep wouldn’t come, so he decided he might as well be a complete cliché and took his time drawing Brad, calm and unguarded in his sleep. He never showed that sketch to anyone, including Brad. It’s the most personal thing he’s ever drawn.

Nate doesn’t know what to tell her and he finally settles on, “A model I worked with.” Gillian raises an eyebrow. “You know, on that project.”

“Does this model have a name?”

“Brad.”

Gillian pauses, then says, “You know, Nate, I’m not blind. I can recognize intimacy when I see it. And this drawing? It’s like a freaking statement, a huge, flashing neon light.”

Nate doesn’t try to deny it anymore. He just sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly, and picks at a loose thread in the bedspread.

“Just… keep it to yourself, will you?”

Gillian nods, then passes him the drawing and Nate traces the line of Brad’s neck with his thumb.

“I think I might be in love with him,” he tells her and just saying that out loud makes him feel oddly relieved, the strange tightness in his lungs receding just a bit, allowing him to breathe more freely. “I’m so angry with him right now, and I still…” he trails off, unsure what he wanted to say in the first place, and shakes his head.

He thinks about the six missed calls on his cell phone, all with Brad’s number on them.

Nate still feels angry and betrayed, and he can’t talk to Brad right now, but it’s not like he doesn’t want to talk to him ever again. He just needs time to make some sense of everything that happened, figure out what it means for the two of them, where do they go from here. That’s all. That, and he needs to get rid of that stinging feeling he gets every time he remembers Brad’s face when he told Nate that he lied to him—or didn’t tell the truth, but that’s one and the same thing in Nate’s book.

* * *

On Christmas Eve the house starts to fill with people—James and Troy come over late in the morning, after escaping the evil clutches of their own respective families, and Linda arrives in the early afternoon with her two daughters, who don’t leave Nate’s side from the moment they spot him, looking at him like he’s the only thing that’s better than chocolate.

Maggie wants him to draw her, just like she does every time they see each other, so that she can show the sketch to her friends at school and go around, bursting with pride at having her own portrait done by a _real_ artist. Sasha asks him lots of questions about New York and if he goes to see plays on Broadway often, and if he met some famous Broadway actors. She sings, and performing on Broadway has been one of her greatest dreams since she was a very mature eight-year-old. That was five years ago.

Nate finishes the sketch for Maggie and then the three of them decorate the Christmas tree. They’re nearly done, hundreds of tiny flickering lights hanging from the branches of a huge pine tree Nate’s father brought in the morning, when Nate’s mother comes into the living room.

“Nate, sweetheart, there’s someone for you on the phone. Says his name is Brad?”

Nate only misses a beat. “Sure. Thanks, mom, I’m gonna take it in dad’s study.”

It’s dark inside the room and Nate flicks on the small lamp standing on the desk before picking up. He grips the pen lying atop a stack of papers so hard his knuckles go white.

“Brad? How the hell did you get this number?” he asks instead of a _hello_.

“The old fashioned way.” Brad’s voice sounds strange over the line, like he’s far away and right next to Nate at the same time. “I looked it up in a phone book. Did you know there are exactly thirty Fick families living in Baltimore? You’re number eleven on the list.”

Nate shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t answer my calls.” There’s a pause after that, and then a sharp intake of breath. “And I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. I can assure you that you won’t be seeing or hearing from me again, you made yourself clear the last time we spoke. I’d appreciate it, though, if you let me know how you did on that project.”

It sounds rehearsed and Nate can’t bear to hear that tone in Brad’s voice, the one that makes him sound broken and defeated but too damn proud and emotionally fucked-up to admit it.

“Happy Christmas, Nate, regardless.”

Brad disconnects before Nate has the chance to say anything, and he’s left there with a dead receiver in his hand. It takes a moment for everything he’s just heard to sink in.

 _Fuck._

The next five times Nate tries Brad’s cell phone, he doesn’t pick up.

 _Fuck._

“You okay?” Gillian asks, sticking her head in.

Nate rubs his eyes.

“No.”

Gillian looks over her shoulder into the dark corridor, then back at Nate. “Go,” she says. “I’ll cover for you.”

He walks in the falling snow for the next hour, until his hands and feet go numb and his face feels like it’s frozen into a mask and he won’t be able to move his muscles ever again. He tries Brad’s cell three more times, but it’s either turned off or dead.

* * *

Nate ends up at an Irish pub he usually goes to with his friends whenever he’s back in Baltimore for a while. He doesn’t feel like going home yet.

The bartender shoots him a sympathetic look before sending him a shot of whisky without asking anything and Nate realizes that he must look miserable—his skin feels like it’s on fire once he’s inside the warm pub, burning and itching, his eyes red-rimmed from the frosty wind and his hands rubbing them far too much while he was desperately trying to come up with some sort of solution to this whole situation.

He downs the shot in one go and waits for the warm, burning sensation to spread throughout his body, closing his eyes and relaxing in his chair. As he slowly unfreezes, he notices that there are carols playing quietly on the radio, and there’s the scent of eggnog lingering in the air, the whole Christmas shebang.

When he checks his cell phone, there’s one text from Walt, who’s asking him how’s Christmas and if he’s had enough of his family already. There’s a smiley face at the end of the message and then a miserable post scriptum which reads: _my house is full and they drive me crazy. can't wait to be back in ny_. This means Walt doesn’t know, which means that Ray doesn’t know either.

He wonders if Brad went home for Christmas, even if, technically speaking, his family doesn’t celebrate Christmas in the first place. But he still got some free time on that account and Nate knows Brad has a little niece, who probably misses her uncle. He almost smiles at the thought.

He thinks of calling Brad once again, but forgoes the thought somewhere between ordering a bottle of Guinness and taking the first swig. He knows that sometimes persistence can be as futile as resistance.

“Hi.” There’s a rush of air next to him and Nate smells some citrus perfume, then turns his head and sees a short, thin girl settling in the chair right next to him. She’s a redhead and her hair is curly, her eyes a deep shade of grey. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything? It’s just that I saw you sitting all alone over here and I _hate_ it when people are left on their own.”

 _Oh, the irony_ , Nate thinks.

Nate wants to tell her that he’d rather be alone right now, but he doesn’t have the heart to do it and maybe she just wants to talk, which would be fine, but Nate can’t deal with anything more right now, not when there’s the cell phone in his pocket, burning a hole against the black denim.

“I’m Jessica,” the girl says. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around? And I’m here quite often, I live just across the street.”

Nate takes a sip of his beer, aware of the way Jessica’s gaze drops to his mouth. He can feel a headache coming.

“I study in New York, I’m just home for Christmas,” he says. “And my name’s Nate.”

Jessica nods. “Any particular reason you’re not home, then, Nate?”

Nate’s mind goes back to that text from Walt.

“Too many people in one place. They drive me crazy.”

Jessica laughs and it’s a nice laugh, warm and sincere, and Nate offers a small smile in return, just the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

“Any particular reason you’re not home?” he asks and sees her shake her head.

“It’s just me and my sister this year, and she’s high on painkillers and asleep in her bed, with her leg broken, so I thought, what the hell, I could go for a pint. Where’s the hurt in that, right? Beats watching _Home Alone_ for the hundredth time, I figured. Turns out I was right.”

She smiles and shifts closer while Nate pulls back, putting some distance between them.

“Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice girl, Jessica, but I’m not interested, not like that. Sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.” He smiles apologetically.

Jessica shrugs. “Still didn’t hurt to try, right?”

Nate smiles at her once again, drinks the last of his beer and stands up, ready to leave, but then Jessica catches him by the wrist and there’s a sharpie in her hand. “Just in case you change your mind,” she says, writing a series of digits on the inside of his forearm.

The first thing Nate does after coming back home is washing the phone number off his skin.

He won’t change his mind.

* * *

He goes back to New York on the 27th, even though classes doesn’t start till early January, but he can’t afford to miss that much work.

“Yo, man.” Q-Tip raises his hand to welcome him when Nate steps inside the café early in the morning. “Back already?”

“The money won’t earn itself.” Nate shrugs, taking off his coat and scarf. “How was your Christmas?”

“Screwby,” Q-Tip says, which could mean exactly anything, so Nate waits for some sort of clarification. “Took my boy Christeson home, almost gave momma a heart attack, ‘cause she thought I was bringing a girl with me.” He chuckles, then his expression turns miserable and Nate could swear that he pouts. “By the time we were leaving, she liked Christeson better than me.”

“I’m assured that had it been the other way round, his family would’ve liked you better, too,” he offers sympathetically. “It’s a rule of the universe, you know? They’ve known you all your life and they’ve known Christeson for the totality of what, two days? No time to earn any negative points.” He pats him on the shoulder, keeping his face straight the whole time. Q-Tip flips him off.

“Where’s Monica, by the way?” Nate asks.

“She’s gonna be late. Some dudes flooded her apartment.”

“Jesus. _Again_?”

Q-Tip shrugs. “Oh, and there was this guy, you know, the freakishly tall one? He was asking for you.”

Nate freezes in his tracks. “When was that?”

“Sometime before Christmas? Don’t remember exactly. I told him you went home for the holiday.”

Nate exhales. So that was probably when Brad wanted to tell him in person what he later told him over the phone. Maybe if they’d talked face to face that day, he would’ve been able to convince Brad that _I don’t want to see you right now_ doesn’t necessarily equal _I don’t want to see you ever again_.

He calls Ray in the afternoon. “Hey, listen, is Brad still in California or has he come back already?”

“Why don’t you just ask, you know, _Brad_?” Nate can almost see Ray squinting on the other end of the line as he imagines his reaction.

“We aren’t exactly on speaking terms right now.”

“Shit.” Ray is silent for a moment and Nate starts to worry. “Shit, Nate, what happened?”

“Sorry, Ray, I’d rather not discuss that at the moment, I hope you understand. Now, about Brad?”

Person sighs into the phone. “No, he’s still in Cali, will be back on the 30th.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Nate says and it surprises even himself how tired he sounds. “And could you do me a favor? Don’t tell Brad I called you. I need to sort it out face to face.”

“Yeah, homes, no problem. You holding up?”

“I’m going to be fine.” He’s aware that his choice of words can’t possibly escape Ray’s attention, but it’s the truth. He’s going to be fine eventually. Now it’s up to Brad whether it’s going to happen sooner or later, because Nate’s already made his decision. It’s Brad’s move now.

The weather is still cold, frost fogging up the windows, painting unique, intricate patterns on the glass and when Nate gets back to his place in the evening after coming from the gallery, it’s freezing in there, so he quickly fixes himself dinner and dives under the covers with a book, a cup of hot raspberry tea standing on the bedside table. He thinks fondly of the warmth of Brad’s apartment. He thinks a lot less fondly of his own goddamn landlord.

He should probably look for a different place, since Wendy called him a few weeks back, saying that she’s staying in Europe, so there’s nothing keeping him here anymore, maybe except for the phenomenal light. On the other hand, he can’t afford anything better than what he has now on his own, so he either has to find a new roommate, stay here or trade one shithole for another. He probably could pull this off and get a better apartment if he took more commissions, but he has no way of knowing how many he’s going to get—sometimes it’s as much as four or five a month, sometimes it’s one or two, or zero.

Nate knows it would be easier for everyone except himself if he went to study law or economics, or even graphic design, since it pays better than fine arts in any case, but he also knows that it’s not him at all, that it would achieve nothing except make him miserable. Nate loves what he does, even if it means that he can’t afford many things he wants, but fortunately there are still some moments that don’t cost a thing—like when he gets that ecstatic feeling that occurs whenever he paints and it comes easily, just as if there was an invisible hand guiding his brush or charcoal, or when he feels that sublime sensation of looking at something so breathtakingly beautiful that it makes something deep inside him ache.

That’s how he knows he was born to do this, because he wants those moments more than the things he can’t afford.

There’s a knock on his door and when Nate goes to look through the peephole just to make sure whoever’s on the other side is not going to knock him over the head and proceed to rob him, it turns out that it’s Walt, who’s leaning against the frame, a bag slung over his shoulder.

He’s been at Nate’s apartment once before, but the visit was brief and Nate didn’t expect him to remember the way.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Nate says, opening the door.

Walt gives him a comforting smile. So he knows already. Fucking Ray Person and his big mouth.

“Get your shit, Fick,” he says in a firm tone, like he won’t take no for an answer. “We’re going out.”

“Where’s Ray?” Nate deflects.

“Pouring the brilliant products of his twisted mind onto the pages.” Walt shrugs and smirks. “The faculty members at NYU may have a huge boner for Ray’s genius and his filthy mouth, but even he has to write his papers every once in a while.”

“Have you even been home today?” Nate points to Walt’s bag that contains, he has no doubt, his dancing clothes. “You must be exhausted.”

“If I’m home, Ray won’t write that goddamn essay, ‘cause he’ll be too distracted by having around someone he can actually talk to, apart from himself, and he’ll end up doing shit. It’s better if I’m not there, really. Ray loves procrastinating and I’m not going to enable him. So, you know, help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi. Obi-Wan… Now, that’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time. A long time,” Nate says, deadpan, and then the corners of Walt’s eyes crinkle and they both crack up.

They end up sharing a pizza at a small restaurant Monica showed Nate some time ago and Walt doesn’t ask any questions, even though Nate knows that he must be aware of what happened between him and Brad. He’s grateful for that.

After devouring three slices, Walt looks wistfully at the last one and sighs.

“It’s not going to kill you, you know,” Nate says. “And you need to make up for all those burned calories.”

“Oh, fuck it,” Walt decides, reaching for the last slice. “I couldn’t even remember what pizza tasted like up until now. They told me to watch my weight.”

Nate takes in Walt’s slender frame, his collarbones clearly visible, standing out, the way his arms look a bit too wiry despite all that strong muscle shifting under his skin and thinks that maybe Walt took that piece of advice a little too much to heart.

* * *

He goes to Brad’s apartment on the 30th in the early evening, coming straight from the gallery, because Brad _will_ fucking talk to him, whatever it might take to get him to do this, and they will behave like two reasonable adults and they will sort it out. That’s the plan.

Nate takes a deep breath and knocks on the green painted wood.

There’s silence on the other side of the door. Nate waits a moment, knocks once more, then leans against the wall, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. He didn’t take _that_ into consideration. Maybe he should have.

It feels so anticlimactic that he would laugh a bit hysterically if it weren’t for that lump in his throat.

Fuck it, he decides. Brad has to come back home eventually.

He sits on the cold floor and waits.

“Nate?” He hears a muffled voice somewhere above him, slightly distorted, like it’s coming from behind a wall made of thick glass, and his eyes flutter open. It’s Brad, leaning over him, a strange expression on his face. “How long have you been sitting here?”

He doesn’t know. He must’ve lost the track of time and dozed off. Nate looks at his watch. Three hours. He’s been here for three hours. It’s a miracle no one has called the police.

Nate rubs his eyes and stands up, looking Brad in the eye. He wanted to be prepared for this, but right now, it is the last thing he would call himself. Groggy, uncertain, confused—yes. Prepared—not so much.

“Explain,” Nate says and sees Brad blink in surprise.

“What?”

“Just fucking explain to me why you did that. I understand you probably had your reasons, but that… that was unacceptable. I hope you realize that.”

“Nate…”

Nate sighs and rubs his forehead, irritation slowly taking over all other emotions. “Look, Brad, can we not do this right here, in the middle of the corridor? Can I come in so that we can talk?”

Brad unlocks the door, his jaw set and his hands maybe, just maybe shaking the tiniest bit, but Nate’s neither asking nor telling here—this moment of weakness, which doesn’t usually show on the outside in his case, belongs to Brad and Brad alone.

“So?” Nate prompts once they’re inside.

Brad looks away. “I never thought it would go that far. I never thought you would stay. I didn’t mean for it to go that far, it was just supposed to be strictly business, what we had, but then you—” he stops abruptly, throwing a quick glance at Nate, like he wants to see his reaction in order to decide what to say next, but then he looks away again, silent.

“But then I…?”

“God, you were just _there_ , Nate, and you were so brilliant and so— You were the first thing I wanted, really wanted, in years.”

Nate feels a little breathless when he looks at Brad, who for once seems to be completely unguarded, just like when he’s asleep, but he’s as far from calm and relaxed as he can be right now—instead, there’s anguish and uncertainty, and fear.

“That night we hooked up?” Brad cringes almost imperceptibly as he says that. “The day earlier my doctor told me I wasn’t going to dance ever again, and then the following day my fiancée told me she was leaving me for my best friend. It was hard for her, the surgeries and then weeks and weeks of PT, when I wasn’t sure of anything and it was driving me crazy, it was hard for everyone and she was just fed up. I don’t blame her.”

 _Jesus Christ_. Nate clenches his fists and wants to take a step closer, but he stays in his place.

“I went to that bar and just wanted to drink myself into oblivion, but then you came in and later, when you came up to me and started flirting, I thought, what the hell, it’s not like I don’t like guys as well as girls, and you seemed okay, maybe just a bit drunk, and I—“ Brad takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment. “I didn’t _know_ you didn’t remember anything, but by the time I realized it, it was too late, so I figured it didn’t matter anyway, it wasn’t like we were doing anything besides painting. And then we did, and I didn’t know how to tell you.” A pause. “I’m sorry for that.”

Nate closes the distance between them in three slow but confident strides and touches Brad, his fingers curling around Brad’s forearm.

“It wasn’t one of my proudest moments,” Nate says in a level tone, “but I knew what I was doing. It’s just that afterwards the details got a bit blurry.”

“Nate, I—“

“Jesus, Brad, you didn’t _use_ me, if that’s what you’re worried about, I was aware of what I was doing, I wanted it, end of story,” he says, looking him straight in the eye, his gaze stern and unrelenting. “Also, what part of _I don’t want to see you right now_ didn’t you understand? I was so angry when I found out, because I thought I could trust you and I just felt like you betrayed that trust. But that didn’t mean it was over for good, for Christ’s sake. So could you explain to me what the fuck you were thinking when you called me on Christmas Eve?”

“I didn’t think you would want anything to do with me after that, because, fuck, you deserve better, Nate, and I just didn’t want to prolong the inevitable.”

Nate shakes his head, closing his eyes, and lets out a displeased laugh.

“Don’t I get a say in this at all?” he asks in a steely voice, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t it occur to you that I’m a grown fucking man and don’t need you to make my decisions for me?”

Nate pinches the bridge of his nose, angry, and he feels a headache coming. He desperately wants Brad to say something, because he’s minutes away from turning around and slamming the door behind him.

“Everything I ever wanted, it never worked out for me,” Brad says in a broken voice. “I thought it would be the same with you. I didn’t want it to be, I just assumed. And I wanted to be wrong so fucking much the whole time.”

“You were. You are. I told you, I’m not going to run away,” Nate assures him and when Brad looks up, Nate sees something that just may look like hope in his eyes. “Was I angry? Yes. Do I think what you did was wrong? Yes. Do I want you nonetheless? Yes.”

Brad exhales and his breath tickles Nate’s skin—they’re only inches apart. Nate kisses him on the cheek, his hand cupping his jaw, and then he takes a step back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He thinks it will do them good to have some time to think it over in peace and quiet—everything’s still too fresh and tentative, and it would be so easy to destroy this new-found equilibrium with one hasty move. His lips brush once more against Brad’s skin and then he’s gone, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

He’s halfway down the stairs when he thinks, _To hell with it_ , and turns around. They’ve had enough time to think. Maybe that was their problem.

“Brad,” he says, knocking on the door. “It’s me. Can you let me in?”

The door opens in a matter of seconds.

* * *

The bedroom is full of shadows. They lie on Brad’s bed, facing each other, but they don’t touch. The city lights are playing on Brad’s skin and Nate wants to reach out and trace the lines they draw on his body.

“When they told me I wouldn’t be dancing ever again, all I did was pretend,” Brad says, his voice quiet and hoarse. “In front of my folks, so that they wouldn’t worry, in front of Jess, because… fuck, I don’t even know, but she was so important to me back then and I just wanted to convince her that I was fine, because I was afraid that she might leave if I wasn’t. Turns out it didn’t help one fucking bit and she still left. With my best friend. They have a lovely house, you know, white picket fence and a goddamn golden retriever. A kid on the way. I visit them from time to time when I’m back home in California. That’s what friends do, right?”

He laughs, but it sounds bitter.

“But still the worst part was, there was no way I could dance again. It was all I would think of back then, before I pulled myself together, before everything else sunk in.”

Maybe there’s something to be said about the semblance of easiness that darkness creates, how it’s not that hard to let go of some things you wouldn’t admit in daylight, like not being able to see clearly the face of the person next to you makes all the difference, like you can almost pretend there’s no one else and everything you say is still a secret.

Nate understands why Brad says all these things at this particular moment. He would probably deny it come morning, but right now it’s all there, the most important things Nate’s been missing.

He bites his lip, worrying it with his teeth until he scrapes it so hard he draws blood. It tastes like copper on his tongue.

“I can’t imagine that,” he says. “Not being able to paint. It would destroy me, I would go mad with frustration.”

“That’s what I thought, just after. But I learned to make do.”

Nate reaches out and touches his forearm. He opens his mouth to say something, but he’s not sure what he can say to that, so he just moves closer and kisses Brad’s shoulder instead. They don’t talk anymore—his eyelids feel heavy and he leans against Brad, listening to his steady breathing until he falls asleep.

In the morning, when he opens his eyes, Brad’s not there and Nate experiences the strange feeling of déjà vu, his mind going back to that first night he spent with Brad and woke up in an empty bed.

There’s a note left on the kitchen table that says: _Had to run an errand. Sorry._

Nate, still half-asleep inside, drinks a glass of water and then goes straight to bed. It’s still quite early and he has the day free, so he can indulge himself a little bit just this one time.

Once he’s back under the covers, though, he can’t force himself to fall asleep again and ends up sprawled on the mattress, doodling in his sketchbook absentmindedly. His mind goes back to the last night’s conversation and he tries to imagine a world in which he would be physically unable to do this, feel the easy scratch of a pencil against the paper, the stroke of a brush on the canvas. It would be crippling, and Nate wonders if that’s what Brad feels like—incomplete, lacking. He wonders if it gets easier eventually. He doesn’t think so.

When he hears the key turn in the lock, he gets up and stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, chasing away the remnants of sleep as he rubs his eyes.

“You’re still here,” Brad says like he’s surprised by that fact, and Nate can’t help but sigh. It’s almost like they’re back to square one.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks, approaching Brad, crowding his personal space, almost challenging him to take a step back. Brad stands his ground and reaches out, touching Nate’s face tentatively.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Just a force of habit.”

Nate lets it slide for the time being, but he’s not delusional and knows that those trust issues won’t go away on their own. He can just hope that they’re at least getting to the point where Brad realizes that he _can_ let go of them and nothing will happen, because Nate is not that kind of a person. It hurts a bit, if he’s to be completely honest with himself, that Brad still doesn’t get it, after all that time.

“You’re coming with me to Ray’s party, right?” Brad asks him then, smiling, still unsure, and Nate wants to kick him and kiss him at the same time. “It’s over at Walt’s.”

Nate raises his eyebrows. “And why does Ray throw his party at Walt’s place again?”

“Because I told him that he could forget about throwing it here,” Brad explains in a tone that speaks volumes about what kind of a conversation that was. “I have no intention of scrubbing vomit off the bathroom floor for the better part of the day after and finding people in various state of undress all over the apartment.”

“Oh, so that’s what _Ray’s parties_ mean in practice.” Nate feels himself grin.

“Pretty much. And be advised, under no circumstances should you accept anything Ray offers you. You cannot even begin to imagine the depths of your suffering the following morning, believe me.”

“I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” he says with a smile.

“So I’ve been told.” Brad pads to the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Have you already eaten or were you just waiting for me to come back so that you could exploit my culinary skills some more?”

Nate shrugs and hoists himself up to sit on the countertop. He can almost hear his mother’s voice in his head, chiding him. “I like your omelets,” he says. “What else can I say?”

* * *

When they arrive at Walt’s apartment, the party is already in full swing. Walt opens the door and Nate can see the relief on his face when he sees that Brad’s not alone.

“Come on in, I need to go check on Trisha,” he says, urging them in.

Whoever Trisha is, it seems she can’t hold her liquor—when they step into the crowded living room, Nate can see Walt kneeling in front of a clearly inebriated girl, who sways a little in her armchair, playing with her long, tiny braids absentmindedly while Walt tries to get her to focus on him.

“I told her to eat something, she came here straight from the practice, on an empty stomach,” he tells Ray, who hovers over him, a hand on the nape of Walt’s neck. “She wouldn’t listen. Hey, maybe I could call a cab and get her home? I’d be back in an hour or so.”

“I have a better idea,” Ray says and then turns to Trisha, trying to get her to stand up. “Come on, Trish, upsy-fucking-daisy. We’re gonna get you to bed, okay? Just don’t puke in there and we’ll be all good.”

They lead her to one of the bedrooms, Walt following Ray’s lead, no questions asked.

Nate looks at them and wonders if he and Brad will ever have something like that—that effortless silent communication that only comes with time. It’s there already, to an extent, it’s been there from the start, but Nate is curious how far it can go if they give it a year or two, or ten. He’s never planned that much ahead.

“Hey.” Brad hands him a bottle of beer and takes a swig from his own, half-empty already. “See anyone familiar?”

“Not really.” Nate shakes his head, then points discreetly to a man standing in the corner, chatting with some girl. “Although I think I might’ve seen that guy in the checkered shirt somewhere at SVA, he looks kind of familiar.”

“Crisis averted.” Ray appears by his side, looking pleased with himself, grinning from ear to ear. “And the party hasn’t even started for good. Fuck, this shit’s gonna be epic, they’re going to be talking about it in the months to come.”

“If you actually measure the success of a party with the number of people who passed out or puked their guts out, then sure, you’re the unquestionable life of the party in the whole New York area. All those rock stars have nothing on you,” Brad says, keeping his expression impassive, but Nate knows he’s laughing on the inside.

“You know, Brad,” Ray starts, laying a hand on Brad’s forearm, “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t mean it that way and you weren’t trying to insult your dearest pal Ray-Ray, okay? Otherwise I’d have to be fucking mad at you for insinuating such a thing.”

“How is she?” Nate asks, pointing with his head in the direction of the bedroom.

“Sleeping. I really hope she doesn’t barf all over the bed or Walt will make me clean it up,” Ray says with a frown.

“Brad?” A tall girl comes over to where they’re standing and hugs Brad, who stiffens visibly next to Nate. “What are you up to these days? I sure haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“You improved your turnout yet?” Brad asks with a smile and she punches him in the arm.

“Fuck you, Brad Colbert, that was a long time ago. I’m Anna, by the way,” she says, extending her hand and Nate takes it. Her handshake is firm. “I went to Juilliard with Brad.”

Of course she did. Walt’s still a student there, so it’s only natural that there are going to be some dancers here.

“Nate,” he replies with a polite smile. “I’m Brad’s—“ And there it is again, this nagging uncertainty as to what they are to each other, exactly.

“We’re together,” Brad supplies without hesitation and Nate feels Brad’s fingers wrap around his hand.

“Oh.” Her face falls just for a split second, then she smiles and it looks genuine, even if a little disappointed. “Well, in that case, _mazel tov_ to you. But seriously, how have you been, Brad?”

“Okay, I guess. Columbia loves me, so they gave me a scholarship. It’s all coming together.” He doesn’t say the most obvious thing. _I miss it every day._ But he must think it, Nate guesses. It would be impossible not to.

“That’s awesome. Listen, I gotta go, I was just on my way out when I spotted you, but it was great meeting you again. And you, Nate. Take care and, Brad, don’t be a stranger, okay?” She kisses him on the cheek and disappears in the corridor, leaving the sweet scent of her perfume lingering in the air.

“Was that—“ he starts once she’s gone, looking uncertain once again and ready to backpedal if needed.

“It was okay, Brad,” Nate reassures him, laughing under his breath and then he pulls Brad in for a kiss. Brad relaxes against him and Nate opens his mouth, licks at Brad’s lower lip. He doesn’t even think about the fact that he usually dislikes public display of affection in general.

Once people are drunk enough to start dancing, or—the way Brad puts it—thrashing around more or less to the rhythm of the music like uncoordinated, mentally deficient monkeys, Brad and Nate stay in the kitchen, now empty except for the multitude of cups and bottles lying on every available flat surface.

They’re both a bit tipsy by now, and when Nate leans in to steal a kiss, he can taste beer and whiskey on Brad’s tongue. Brad’s hands wander under Nate’s shirt and what was intended as a brief, innocent kiss becomes a much, much longer and more heated make-out session right in the middle of Walt’s kitchen. Nate feels like a horny teenager propelled by too much alcohol and sheer _want_ coursing through his veins.

Someone tells them to find a fucking room. Brad gives him the finger and Nate laughs, his face hidden in the crook of Brad’s neck.

“Maybe we should,” he tells Brad quietly.

When he looks at his watch, he realizes that they somehow managed to miss midnight, it’s already ten minutes past and he can hear fireworks going off in the distance, lighting up the sky. It wasn’t the worst way to start the new year, though, he thinks, just him and Brad, nothing between them but two layers of clothes.

Brad looks at him, then out the window and back at him.

“Yeah, maybe we should,” he says.

They sober up in the cab taking them back to Brad’s apartment. The driver gives them a strange look when Brad turns his head to nuzzle Nate’s neck, his hands impatient on Nate’s skin, desperate and searching, like they want to rediscover the once-familiar territory of his body.

When they get out of the car, the chilly air hits Nate’s overheated skin and he shakes a little; then Brad takes his hand and they run into the building and up the stairs, until they’re standing in front of Brad’s apartment, a bit out of breath, but from something other than exertion.

Once they’re inside, Nate manages only to take off his coat and remove the scarf before Brad wraps an arm around him, pulling him close, kissing him on the neck, and then he takes him by the hand, lifting it to kiss the tattoo on the inside of Nate’s wrist, flicking his tongue over the black ink. Nate shudders.

“What’s the story?” Brad asks in a hushed voice. “I never got around to ask.”

The tattoo is simple—a little black-and-white wind rose. Nate got it after his first year at SVA. He tilts his head back, resting it on Brad’s shoulder, his mouth moving against the skin on his neck as he speaks in a quiet voice, “It’s meant to represent the artist in me, how for me art is about freedom first and foremost. Any way the wind blows, you know.”

Brad’s fingers trace the tattoo as he dips his head and they kiss lazily for a moment before Brad unbuttons Nate’s jeans and wraps a hand around him, setting a torturously slow pace, his long fingers driving Nate crazy as they tease him without mercy.

“Brad, just, fuck…” he whispers, turning his head to kiss Brad’s neck, leave little marks that will fade over time, but Nate will still be able to see exactly where they used to be, like a silent claim only the two of them know about.

They kiss, deep and desperate and wet until Nate can’t breathe, liquid fire in his lungs and mist in front of his eyes, and he moans when Brad pulls back for air, his hand quickening the pace, his grip tighter. Nate can see them in the large mirror hanging on the wall right by the front door, and they look almost obscene—Brad’s strong arm disappearing in Nate’s jeans, moving steadily, his eyes never leaving Nate, and Nate’s own face, drunk with lust, eyes glazed over, his throat exposed as he tilts his head back to bury it in the crook of Brad’s neck, making soft, desperate noises in the back of his throat. His skin is flushed and his mouth red from kisses.

“You have no idea, do you? You have no idea how you look, how fucking beautiful you are like that,” Brad whispers into his ear and Nate vaguely remembers that they’d had this conversation before.

When Nate looks up to gaze at Brad, his pupils are blown wide and there’s an expression on his face that tells Nate more than anything Brad could say would.

“Brad,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. “Brad.”

It’s all his world is reduced to right now—Brad.

He kisses Nate then, capturing his mouth and not letting go until Nate finally comes, spilling all over Brad’s hand—Brad swallows the desperate moans he makes and strokes him slowly through the aftershocks while Nate shudders in his arms.

He must be painfully hard at this point, Nate can feel his erection pressing against his body, so he turns around, kisses Brad, sweeping his tongue along his lower lip, and then drops to his knees, unzips Brad’s jeans and pushes them down along with his underwear.

The first stroke, followed by a lazy sweep of his tongue along the underside, makes Brad suck in a sharp breath as he tries to stay still and allow Nate to set the pace. Nate closes his mouth around him after he teases Brad for a while, watching as he writhes helplessly, pinned to the front door by Nate’s hand—a payback for earlier, a retaliation for the slow torture of Brad’s teasing fingers on his dick.

Brad grips his shoulders hard and his nails dig into the soft flesh, leaving crescent-shaped marks that will become angry red and visible for hours afterwards, when Nate takes him deeper, developing a steady rhythm. He breathes through his nose, taking deep, slow breaths as he sucks harder, and he looks up at Brad from under his eyelashes. Brad is gasping for air, his head leaning against the door, his eyes closed and his mouth open, the long arch of his neck exposed, his muscles tense like a taut string, shivering under Nate’s touch, and he’s beautiful like that, so beautiful it makes Nate ache. To know that he’s the one who’s made him come undone like that is exhilarating.

He pulls back for a moment and kisses Brad’s hip where the bone juts out, feeling its hardness under the soft skin, teasing it with his teeth and soothing the sharp sensation with his tongue. Brad moans, biting his knuckles.

“No,” Nate whispers, his voice hoarse and his lips tingling. “I want to hear you.”

After that, it doesn’t take long—Nate sucks and licks, and takes him deeper with every slide of his mouth, and soon Brad is coming in complete silence, his eyes screwed shut and his mouth slightly open, his fingers buried in Nate’s hair.

In the dim light falling into the hall through the bedroom window he looks like some sort of unearthly vision.

They stay there for a moment, Nate still on his knees in front of Brad, who’s breathing like he’s just run ten miles. Nate runs a hand down Brad’s thigh, his nails scraping lightly against the soft skin, and then Brad yanks him up, bringing him closer for a kiss.

“Shower. Now,” Nate orders, his mouth against Brad’s lips. They’re both sticky, sweaty and still fully clothed, the unbuttoned jeans notwithstanding.

“Mmm, bossy.” Brad laughs, the warm air brushing past Nate’s cheek.

“Come on.”

They don’t even bother to dress after the shower, just go straight to bed, with only two short detours when Brad pins Nate to the wall to kiss him.

They go slowly, now that the edge is off.

There’s a scar running right under Brad’s knee, a testament to a past not fully realized, and Nate traces it with his fingers, feeling the strange texture of the scar tissue. He knows it’s pale, almost white against Brad’s slightly tanned skin—he’s seen it many times without actually thinking of how it got there in the first place.

Nate knows he shouldn’t be thinking it, but he’s almost glad that it’s there, because maybe if it weren’t, they would’ve never met. He knows it’s selfish. He can’t help it.

He reaches his hand back and places it on Brad’s hip, squeezing lightly, urging him closer, deeper, their bodies perfectly aligned, until he can feel Brad’s heartbeat against his back, and then he cranes his neck to kiss Brad, slow and deep and intense.

* * *

Nate gets an A on his semester project.

“I was worried for a while there, Nate,” his professor tells him. “I knew you had it in you, I just wasn’t sure if you could deliver. You know how we try to teach you different techniques and theories? You have it, but anyone can have it if they try and learn long enough. This?” He points to Nate’s works laid out on the table. “This is creation in the strict sense of the word. It’s not _ex nihilo_ , of course, but you take your subject and transcend it, recreate it in your own mind, make it yours. That’s what art is about.”

Nate smiles, ecstatic.

“Of course you got an A, homes,” Ray tells him, nursing a glass of water and a killer hangover. He wears some ridiculous Elvis sunglasses, even though they’re inside and there’s no sun. “The professor took one look at Brad’s ass and was rendered speechless, like everyone else would be.”

“So that’s what it takes to shut you up?” Brad asks. “Nate…”

Nate laughs, shrugging, like he wants to say, _It’s for the greater good, I’m not gonna stop you_.

Ray scoffs.

“Yeah, right, Brad, you keep telling yourself that. But I think you should know that your superpowers don’t work on Ray-Ray, I’ve known you for too long, homes. Your ass doesn’t impress me.”

“I think Walt will be glad to hear that,” Nate says.

“Hey, congratulations,” Brad whispers into Nate’s ear when Nate’s about to leave for classes, and then he kisses him briefly on the mouth. They’re standing in the hall, having left Ray in the kitchen to his own devices. “I knew you’d do great.”

“Thanks.” Nate kisses him back. “I’ll see you later.”

These days, Nate is practically living at Brad’s apartment. He barely remembers what his own place looks like and he doesn’t miss it even one bit. There’s nothing to miss, except maybe the light, but if Nate has to choose between the light and Brad, the choice is obvious.

“Ray’s moving out,” Brad says one morning. Nate looks up at him, the French toast lying on his plate completely forgotten. “And this time he takes all of his shit with him. And your apartment is a shithole. So. Your keys are on the table. I mean, if you want them.”

He knows this means _I love you_ in Brad’s language. It’s as close as Brad can get to the actual words, at least for now.

Nate walks over to the table to retrieve the keys and puts them in his pocket in front of Brad. Then, after a short moment of consideration, he goes to Brad’s—their—bedroom, fishes out a drawing from his portfolio, the one nobody was ever supposed to see, and lays it on their bed.

“I left something for you in the bedroom,” he says before kissing Brad goodbye. He hopes Brad knows it means _me too_.


End file.
